GIFT  OF 
A.    i4  .   Morrison 


BY   EUGENE   FIELD 


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BOOK  OF  TALES 


BOOK  OF  TALES 


BY 


EUGENE   FIELD 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1896 


Copyright  1896 
BY  JULIA  SUTHERLAND  FIELD 

GIFT  OF 


The  tales  down  to  and  including  "  The  Werewolf" 
in  this  volume  have  been  selected  from  those  which 
remained  unpublished  in  book  form  at  the  time  of 
Mr.  Field's  death.  It  was  also  thought  desirable 
to  take  from  "  Culture's  Garland,"  and  to  incorpo 
rate  in  this  volume,  such  sketches  as  seemed  most 
likely  to  prove  of  permanent  value  and  of  interest  as 
illustrating  Mr.  Field's  earlier  manner;  and  these, 
eight  in  number,  form  the  latter  part  of  the  book. 


M103542 


Cales  in  tljte  HBoofc 


PAGE 

HUMIN  NATUR'  ON  THE  HAN'BUL  'ND  ST.  Jo.    .      3 

THE  MOTHER  IN  PARADISP: 15 

MR.  AND  MRS.  BLOSSOM 23 

DEATH  AND  THE  SOLDIER 35 

THE  'JININ'  FARMS 47 

THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  FLOWERS 63 

THE  CHILD'S  LETTER 71 

THE  SINGER  MOTHER 81 

THE  Two  WIVES 93 

THE  WOOING  OF  Miss  WOPPIT 99 

THE  TALISMAN 163 

GEORGE'S  BIRTHDAY 183 

SWEET-ONE -DARLING  AND  THE  DREAM  FAIRIES  201 
SWEET-ONE-DARLING  AND  THE  MOON-GARDEN  215 
SAMUEL  COWLES  AND  HIS  HORSE  ROYAL  .  .  229 

THE  WEREWOLF 243 

A  MARVELLOUS  INVENTION 259 

THE  STORY  OF  XANTHIPPE 266 

BAKED  BEANS  AND  CULTURE 277 

MLLE.  PRUD'HOMME'S  BOOK 283 

THE  DEMAND  FOR  CONDENSED  Music       .     .     .  283 

LEARNING  AND  LITERATURE 292 

"DiE  WALKURE"  UND  DER  BOOMERANGELUNGEN  296 
THE  WORKS  OF  SAPPHO 304 


tynmin  $atur'  on  tije  f  an'&ul 


HUMIN  NATUR'   ON   THE   HAN'BUL 
'ND  ST.  JO. 


DURIN'  war  times  the  gorillas  bed  torn 
up  most  uv  the  cypress  ties  an'  used 
'em  for  kindlin'  an'  stove  wood,  an'  the 
result  wuz  that  when  the  war  wuz  over 
there  wuz  n't  anythink  left  uv  the  Han'bul 
'nd  St.  Jo  but  the  rollin'  stock  'nd  the 
two  streaks  uv  rails  from  one  end  uv  the 
road  to  the  other.  In  the  spring  uv  '67  I  hed 
to  go  out  into  Kansas ;  and  takin'  the  Han'bul 
'nd  St.  Jo  at  Palmyry  Junction,  I  wuz  n't  long 
in  findin'  out  that  the  Han'bul  'nd  St.  Jo  rail 
road  wuz  jist  about  the  wust  cast  of  rollin' 
prairer  I  ever  struck. 

There  wuz  one  bunk  left  when  I  boarded 
the  sleepin'-car,  and  I  hed  presence  uv  mind 
'nuff  to  ketch  on  to  it.  It  wuz  then  just 
about  dusk,  an'  the  nigger  that  sort  uv  run 
things  in  the  car  sez  to  me:  "  Boss,"  sez  he, 
3 


'-SECOND   BOOK 


:  V'*?  *J.^frd  {?:$&yqli  to  please  not  to  snore 
to-night,  but  to  be 'uncommon  quiet." 

"  What  for  ?  "  sez  I.  "  Hain't  I  paid  my 
two  dollars,  an'  hain't  I  entitled  to  all  the 
luxuries  uv  the  outfit?" 

Then  the  nigger  leant  over  an'  told  me  that 
Colonel  Elijah  Gates,  one  uv  the  directors  uv 
the  road,  an '  the  richest  man  in  Marion  County, 
wuz  aboard,  an'  it  wuz  one  uv  the  rules  uv 
the  company  not  to  do  anythink  to  bother 
him  or  get  him  to  sell  his  stock. 

The  nigger  pointed  out  Colonel  Gates, 
'nd  I  took  a  look  at  him  as  he  sot  readin' 
the  "  Palmyry  Spectator."  He  wuz  one  of 
our  kind  uv  people  —  long,  raw-boned,  'nd 
husky.  He  looked  to  be  about  sixty  —  may 
be  not  quite  on  to  sixty.  He  wuz  n't  both 
ered  with  much  hair  onto  his  head,  'nd  his 
beard  was  shaved,  all  except  two  rims  or 
fringes  uv  it  that  ran  down  the  sides  uv  his 
face  'nd  rriet  underneath  his  chin.  This  fringe 
filled  up  his  neck  so  thet  he  did  n't  hev  to 
wear  no  collar,  'nd  he  had  n't  no  jewelry 
about  him  excep'  a  big  carnelian  bosom  pin 
that  hed  the  picture  uv  a  woman's  head  on 
it  in  white.  His  specs  sot  well  down  on  his 
4 


OF   TALES 

nose,  'nd  I  could  see  his  blue  eyes  over  'em — 
small  eyes,  but  kind  ur  good-natured.  Be 
tween  his  readin'  uv  his  paper  'nd  his  eatin' 
plugterbacker  he  kep'  toler'ble  busy  till  come 
bedtime.  The  rest  on  us  kep'  as  quiet  as 
we  could,  for  we  knew  it  wuz  an  honor  to 
ride  in  the  same  sleepin'-car  with  the  richest 
man  in  Marion  County  'nd  a  director  uv  the 
Han'bul  'nd  St.  Jo  to  boot. 

Along  'bout  eight  o'clock  the  colonel  reck 
oned  he  'd  tumble  into  bed.  When  he  'd 
drawed  his  boots  'nd  hung  up  his  coat  'nd 
laid  in  a  fresh  hunk  uv  nat'ral  leaf,  he  crawled 
into  the  best  bunk,  'nd  presently  we  heerd 
him  sleepin'.  There  wuz  nuthin'  else  for 
the  rest  uv  us  to  do  but  to  foller  suit,  'nd 
we  did. 

It  must  have  been  about  an  hour  later  — 
say  along  about  Prairer  City  —  that  a  woman 
come  aboard  with  a  baby.  There  war  n't 
no  bunk  for  her,  but  the  nigger  allowed  that 
she  might  set  back  near  the  stove,  for  the 
baby  'peared  to  be  kind  ov  sick-like,  'nd  the 
woman  looked  like  she  had  been  cryin'. 
Whether  it  wuz  the  jouncin'  uv  the  car,  or 
whether  the  young  one  wuz  hungry  or  bed 


SECOND    BOOK 

a  colic  into  it,  I  did  n't  know,  but  anyhow  the 
train  had  n't  pulled  out  uv  Prairer  City  afore 
the  baby  began  to  take  on.  The  nigger  run 
back  as  fast  as  he  could,  'nd  told  the  young 
woman  that  she  'd  have  to  keep  that  baby 
quiet  because  Colonel  'Lijy  Gates,  one  uv 
the  directors  uv  the  road,  wuz  in  the  car  'nd 
wunt  be  disturbed.  The  young  woman 
caught  up  the  baby  scart-like,  'nd  talked 
soothin'  to  it,  'nd  covered  its  little  face  with 
her  shawl,  'nd  done  all  them  things  thet  wo 
men  do  to  make  babies  go  to  sleep. 

But  the  baby  would  cry,  and,  in  spite  of 
all  the  young  woman  'nd  the  nigger  could 
do,  Colonel  Elijah  Gates  heard  the  baby  cry- 
in',  and  so  he  waked  up.  First  his  two  blue 
yarn  socks  come  through  the  curtains,  'nd 
then  his  long  legs  'nd  long  body  ?nd  long 
face  hove  into  sight.  He  come  down  the  car 
to  the  young  woman,  'nd  looked  at  her  over 
his  specs.  Did  n't  seem  to  be  the  least  bit 
mad;  jest  solemn  'nd  bizness  like. 

"My  dear  madam,"  sez  he  to  the  young 
woman,  "  you  must  do  sumpin'  to  keep  that 
child  quiet.  These  people  have  all  paid  for 
their  bunks,  'nd  they  are  entitled  to  a  good 


OF  TALES 

night's  sleep.  Of  course  I  know  how  't  is 
with  young  children  —  will  cry  sometimes 
—  have  raised 'leven  uv  'em  myself,  'ndknow 
all  about  'em.  But  as  a  director  uv  the  Han'- 
bul  'nd  St.  Jo  I  've  got  to  pertect  the  rights 
of  these  other  folks.  So  jist  keep  the  baby 
quiet  as  you  kin." 

Now,  there  war  n't  nothin'  cross  in  the 
colonel's  tone;  the  colonel  wuz  as  kind  'nd 
consid'rit  as  could  be  expected  uv  a  man 
who  hed  so  much  responsibility  a-restin' 
onto  him.  But  the  young  woman  was  kind 
uv  nervous,  'nd  after  the  colonel  went  back 
'nd  got  into  his  bunk  the  young  woman 
sniffled  and  worrited  and  seemed  like  she  had 
lost  her  wits,  'nd  the  baby  kep'  cryin'  jist  as 
hard  as  ever. 

Waal,  there  wuz  n't  much  sleepin'  to  be 
done  in  that  car,  for  what  with  the  baby 
cryin',  'nd  the  young  woman  a-sayin',  "  Oh, 
dear!"  'nd  "Oh,  my!"  and  the  nigger 
a-prancin'  round  like  the  widder  bewitched 
—  with  all  this  goin'  on,  sleep  wuz  out  uv 
the  question.  Folks  began  to  wake  up  'nd 
put  their  heads  outern  their  bunks  to  see 
what  wuz  the  doggone  matter.  This  made 
7 


SECOND   BOOK 

things  pleasanter  for  the  young  woman. 
The  colonel  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could,  and 
then  he  got  up  a  second  time  'nd  come  down 
the  car  'nd  looked  at  the  young  woman  over 
his  specs. 

"Now,  as  I  wuz  tellin'you  afore, "sez  he, 

"I  hain't  makin'  no  complaint  uv  myself, 

for  I  've  raised  a  family  of  'leven  children,  'nd 

I  know  all  about 'em.      But  these  other  folks 

here  in  the  car  have  paid  for  a  good  night's 

sleep,  'nd  it  's  my  duty  as  a  director  uv  the 

Han'bul  'nd  St.  Jo  to  see  that  they  get  it. 

Seems  to  me  like  you  ought  to  be  able  to 

keep  that  child  quiet  — you  can't  make  me 

believe  that  there  's  any  use  for  a  child  to  be 

carryin'  on   so.      Sumpin   's   hurtin'   it  —  I 

know  sumpin  's  hurtin'  it  by  the  way  it 

cries.     Now,  you  look  'nd  see  if  there  ain't 

a  pin  stickin'  into  it  somewhere;  I've  raised 

'leven  children,  'nd  that  's  jist  the  way  they 

used  to  cry  when  there  wuz  a  pin  stickin' 

'em." 

He  reckoned  he  'd  find  things  all  right  this 
time,  'nd  he  went  back  to  his  bunk  feelin' 
toler'ble  satisfied  with  himself.  But  the 
young  woman  could  n't  find  no  pin  stickin' 


OF  TALES 

the  baby,  'nd,  no  matter  how  much  she 
stewed  and  worrited,  the  baby  kep'  right  on 
cryin',  jest  the  same.  Holy  smoke !  but  how 
that  baby  did  cry. 

Now,  I  reckoned  that  the  colonel  would 
be  gettin'  almighty  mad  if  this  thing  kep' 
up  much  longer.  A  man  may  raise  'leven 
children  as  easy  as  rollin'  off  'n  a  log,  'nd 
yet  the  twelfth  one,  that  is  n't  his  at  all,  may 
break  him.  There  is  ginerally  a  last  straw, 
even  when  it  comes  to  the  matter  uv  children. 

So  when  the  colonel  riz  feet  foremost  for 
the  third  time  outern  his  bunk  that  night  — 
or,  I  should  say,  mornin',  for  it  was  mighty 
near  mornin'  now —  we  looked  for  hail  Co- 
lumby. 

"Look  a-here,  my  good  woman,"  sez  he 
to  the  young  woman  with  the  baby,  "as  I 
wuz  tellin'  you  afore,  you  mttst  do  sumpin 
to  keep  that  child  quiet.  It  '11  never  do  to 
keep  all  these  folks  awake  like  this.  They  've 
paid  for  a  good  night's  sleep,  'nd  it  's  my 
duty  as  a  director  uv  the  Han'bul  'nd  St.  Jo 
to  pertest  ag'in'  this  disturbance.  I  've  raised 
a  family  uv  'leven  children,  'nd  I  know,  as 
well  as  I  know  anythink,  that  that  child  is 
9 


bECOND   BOOK 

hungry.     No  child  ever  cries  like  that  when 
it  is  n't  hungry,  so  I  insist  on  your  nursin' 
it  'nd  givin'  us  peace  'nd  quiet." 
Then  the  young  woman  began  to  sniffle. 
"Law  me,  sir,"  sez  the  young  woman, 
"  I  ain't  the  baby's  mother—  I  'm  only  just 
tendin'  it." 

The  colonel  got  pretty  mad  then;  his  face 
got  red  'nd  his  voice  kind  uv  trembled—  he 
wuz  so  mad. 

"Where  is  its  mother?"  sez  the  colonel. 

"Why  is  n't  she  here  takin'  care  uv  this 

hungry  'nd  cryin'  child  like  she  oughtto  be ?  " 

"She  's  in  the  front  car,   sir,"  sez  the 

young  woman,  chokin*  up.     "She  's  in  the 

front  car  — in  a  box,  dead;  we're  takin'  the 

body  'nd  the  baby  back  home." 

Now  what  would  you  or  me  have  done  — 
what  would  any  man  have  done  then  'nd 
there  ?  Jest  what  the  colonel  done. 

The  colonel  did  n't  wait  for  no  second 
thought;  he  jest  reached  out  his  big  bony 
hands  'nd  he  sez,  "Young  woman,  gi'  me 
that  baby  "  -  sez  it  so  quiet  'nd  so  gentle 
like  that  seemed  like  it  wuz  the  baby's  mo 
ther  that  wuz  a-speakin'. 


OF   TALES 

The  colonel  took  the  baby,  and  —  now, 
may  be  you  won't  believe  me  —  the  colonel 
held  that  baby  'nd  rocked  it  in  his  arms  'nd 
talked  to  it  like  it  had  been  his  own  child. 
And  the  baby  seemed  to  know  that  it  lay 
ag'in'  a  lovin'  heart,  for,  when  it  heerd  the  ol' 
man's  kind  voice  'nd  saw  his  smilin'  face  'nd 
felt  the  soothin'  rockin'  uv  his  arms,  the  baby 
stopped  its  grievin'  'nd  cryin',  'nd  cuddled 
up  close  to  the  colonel's  breast,  'nd  begun  to 
coo  'nd  laff. 

The  colonel  called  the  nigger.  ' '  Jim, "  sez 
he,  "  you  go  ahead  'nd  tell  the  conductor  to 
stop  the  train  at  the  first  farm-house.  We  've 
got  to  have  some  milk  for  this  child  - 
some  warm  milk  with  sugar  into  it;  I  hain't 
raised  a  family  uv  'leven  children  for  no- 
thin'." 

The  baby  did  n't  cry  no  more  that  night; 
leastwise  we  did  n't  hear  it  if  it  did  cry. 
And  what  if  we  had  heerd  it  ?  Blessed  if  I 
don't  think  every  last  one  of  us  would  have 
got  up  to  help  tend  that  lonesome  little 
thing. 

That  wuz  more  'n  twenty  years  ago,  but 
I  kin  remember  the  last  words  I  heerd  the 


SHCOND    BOOK   OF   TALES 

colonel  say:  ''No  matter  if  it  docs  cry,"  sez 
he.  "It  don't  make  no  more  noise  than  a 
cricket,  nohow;  'nd  I  reckon  that  being  a 
director  uv  the  road  I  kin  stop  the  train  'nd 
let  off  anybody  that  don't  like  the  way  the 
Han'bul  'nd  St.  Jo  does  business." 

Twenty  years  ago!  Colonel  Elijah  Gates 
is  sleepin'  in  the  Palmyry  buryin'-ground; 
likely  as  not  the  baby  has  growed  up  — 
leastwise  the  Han'bul  'nd  St.  Jo  has;  every- 
think  is  different  now  — everythink  has 
changed  — everythink  except  humin  natur', 
'nd  that  is  the  same,  it  allus  has  been,  and  it 
allus  will  be,  I  reckon. 
1888. 


12 


in 


THE   MOTHER   IN   PARADISE 


A  MOTHER  came  to  the  gateway  of 
Heaven.  She  was  aged  and  weary. 
Her  body  was  bowed  and  her  face  was 
wrinkled  and  withered,  for  her  burden  had 
been  the  burden  of  care  and  trouble  and  sor 
row.  So  she  was  glad  to  be  done  with  life 
and  to  seek  at  the  gateway  of  Heaven  the 
fulfilment  of  the  Promise  that  had  been  her 
solace  through  all  the  hard,  bitter  years. 

An  angel  met  the  Mother  at  the  gateway, 
and  put  her  arms  about  the  drooping  figure, 
and  spoke  gracious,  tender  words. 

"Whom  seekest  thou?"  asked  the  an 
gel. 

"1  seek  my  dear  ones  who  came  hither 
before  me,"  answered  the  Mother.  "  They 
are  very  many  —  my  father,  my  mother,  my 
husband,  my  children  —  they  all  are  hereto- 


SECOND   BOOK 

gether,  and  for  many  and  weary  years  I 
have  lived  in  my  loneliness,  with  no  other 
thing  to  cheer  me  but  the  thought  that  I 
should  follow  them  in  good  time." 

"  Yes,  they  are  here  and  they  await  thee, " 
said  the  angel.  "Lean  upon  me,  dear 
Mother,  and  I  will  lead  thee  to  them." 

Then  the  angel  led  the  way  through  the 
garden  of  Paradise,  and  the  angel  and  the 
Mother  talked  as  they  walked  together. 

"  I  am  not  weary  now,"  said  the  Mother, 
"  and  my  heart  is  not  troubled." 

"It  is  the  grace  of  Heaven  that  restoreth 
thee,  dear  Mother, "  quoth  the  angel.  ' '  Pres 
ently  thou  shalt  be  filled  with  the  new  life, 
and  thou  shalt  be  young  again ;  and  thou 
shalt  sing  with  rapture,  and  thy  soul  shall 
know  the  endless  ecstasy  of  Heaven." 

"Alas,  I  care  not  to  be  young  again," 
saith  the  Mother.  "  I  care  only  to  find  and 
to  be  forever  with  my  beloved  ones." 

As  they  journeyed  in  their  way  a  com 
pany  came  to  meet  them.  Then  the  Mother 
saw  and  knew  her  dear  ones  —  even  though 
the  heavenly  life  had  glorified  their  counte 
nances,  the  Mother  knew  them,  and  she  ran 
16 


OF  TALES 

to  greet  them,  and  there  was  great  joy  to  her 
and  to  them.  Meanwhile  the  angel  kept 
steadfastly  at  her  side. 

Now  the  Mother,  when  she  had  embraced 
her  dear  ones,  looked  at  each  of  them  sep 
arately  once  more,  and  then  she  said:  "Ye 
are  indeed  my  beloved  —  my  mother,  my 
father,  my  husband,  and  my  children!  But 
there  is  one  who  should  be  of  your  company 
whom  I  do  not  see  —  my  babe,  my  little 
helpless  babe  that  came  hither  alone  so 
many,  many  years  ago.  My  heart  fainteth, 
my  breast  yearneth  for  that  dear  little  lamb 
of  mine!  Come,  let  us  go  together  and 
search  for  her;  or  await  me  here  under  these 
pleasant  trees  while  I  search  and  call  in  this 
fair  garden  for  my  dear,  lost  little  babe!" 

The  others  answered  never  a  word,  but 
the  angel  said:  "I  will  go  with  thee, 
Mother,  and  together  we  shall  find  thy 
child." 

As  they  went  on  their  way  the  angel 
said:  "Shall  I  tell  thee  of  myself ?  For  I 
was  a  little  helpless  babe  when  I  came 
hither  to  this  fair  garden  and  into  this 
heavenly  life." 


SECOND   BOOK 

"  Perchance  thou  knowest  her,  my  pre 
cious  lambkin!  "  cried  the  Mother. 

"I  was  a  babe  when  I  came  hither," 
said'  the  angel.  "See  how  I  am  grown 
and  what  happiness  hath  been  mine!  The 
compassion  of  divinity  hath  protected  and 
fostered  me,  and  hath  led  me  all  these  years 
in  the  peace  that  passeth  all  human  under 
standing.  God  hath  instructed  me  in  wis 
dom,  and  He  shall  instruct  thee,  too;  for  all 
who  come  hither  are  as  children  in  His 
sight,  and  they  shall  grow  in  wisdom  and  in 
grace  eternally." 

"But  my  babe  —  my  own  lost  little  one 
whom  I  have  not  held  in  these  arms  for  so 
many  weary  years  —  shall  she  not  still  be 
my  little  babe,  and  shall  I  not  cradle  her 
in  my  bosom  ?  "  asked  the  Mother. 

"Thy  child  shall  be  restored  to  thee," 
said  the  angel;  "for  she  yearneth  for  thee 
even  as  thou  yearnest  for  her.  Only  with 
this  difference,  dear  Mother:  Thy  child 
hath  known,  in  the  grace  of  heavenly  wis 
dom,  that  at  the  last  thy  earthly  sorrow 
should  surely  be  rewarded  with  the  joys  of 
the  endless  reunion  in  Paradise!" 
1 8 


OF  TALKS 


"Then  she  hath  thought  of  me  and 
longed  for  me  to  come! "  cried  the  Mother, 
''And  my  lost  babe  shall  be  restored  and 
shall  know  her  mother  again!  " 

"Ay,  she  loveth  thee  fondly,"  said  the 
angel,  "and  she  hath  awaited  thy  coming, 
lo,  these  many  years.  Presently  thine  eyes 
shall  be  opened  and  thou  shalt  see  her  stand 
ing  before  thee  in  her  heavenly  raiment 
whiter  than  snow,  and  around  her  neck 
thou  shalt  see  her  wearing  most  precious 
pearls— the  tears  which  thou  hast  shed,  oh 
lonely  Mother!  and  which  are  the  pearls  the 
little  ones  in  Heaven  gather  up  and  cherish 
as  an  adornment  most  pleasing  unto  God 
and  them." 

Then  the  Mother  felt  that  her  eyes  were 
opened,  and  she  turned  and  looked  upon  the 
angel.  And  the  Mother  saw  that  the  angel 
was  her  lost  beloved  child  whom  she  was 
seeking:  not  the  helpless  babe  that  she  had 
thought  to  find,  but  a  maiden  of  such  heavenly 
beauty  and  gentleness  as  only  the  dwellers  in 
Paradise  behold  and  know.  And  the  Mother 
spread  her  arms,  and  gave  a  great  cry  of  joy, 
and  folded  her  very  dear  one  to  her  bosom. 
19 


SECOND    BOOK   OF   TALES 

Then  presently  they  returned  together  to 
the  others.  And  there  was  rapturous  ac 
claim  in  Paradise,  and  it  was  to  God's  sweet 
pleasance  that  it  was  so.  For  a  Mother  and 
her  beloved  communed  in  the  holy  com 
panionship  of  love  everlasting. 


20 


,  anb 


MR.  AND   MRS.  BLOSSOM 


THE  name  we  meant  to  call  her  was  An 
nette,  for  that  was  a  name  I  always 
liked.  'Way  back,  before  I  got  married,  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  if  I  ever  had  a  daugh 
ter  I  should  call  her  Annette.  My  inten 
tion  was  good  enough,  but  circumstances 
of  a  peculiar  nature  led  me  to  abandon  the 
idea  which  in  anticipation  afforded  me  real 
ly  a  lot  of  pleasure.  My  circumstances  have 
always  been  humble.  I  say  this  in  no  spirit 
of  complaint.  We  have  very  much  to  be 
thankful  for,  and  we  are  particularly  grate 
ful  for  the  blessing  which  heaven  has  be 
stowed  upon  us  in  the  person  of  our  dear 
child  —  our  daughter  who  comes  from  school 
to-night  to  spend  Thanksgiving  with  us  and 
with  our  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blossom.  I 
must  tell  you  how  we  became  acquainted 
with  the  Blossoms. 

23 


SECOND   BOOK 

When  our  baby  was  two  years  old  I  used  to 
sit  of  mornings,  before  going  to  my  work, 
on  the  front  steps,  watching  the  baby  play 
ing  on  the  sidewalk.  This  pleasantest  half- 
hour  of  the  day  I  divided  between  the  little 
one  and  my  pipe.  One  morning,  as  I  sat 
there  smoking  and  as  the  little  one  was  tod 
dling  to  and  fro  on  the  sidewalk,  a  portly, 
nice-looking  old  gentleman  came  down  the 
street,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  the  baby 
got  right  in  his  path,  and  before  I  could  get 
to  her  she  tangled  herself  all  up  with  the  old 
gentleman's  legs  and  cane.  The  old  gentle 
man  seemed  very  much  embarrassed,  but, 
bless  your  soul!  the  baby  liked  it! 

"  A  pretty  child  —  a  beautiful  child !  "  said 
the  old  gentleman,  and  then  he  inquired : 
"Boy  or  girl?" 

"  Girl,"  says  I,  and  I  added:  "Two  years 
old  and  weighs  thirty  pounds." 

"  That  must  be  a  great  deal  for  a  little  girl 
to  weigh,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  and  I 
saw  that  his  eyes  lingered  lovingly  and 
yearningly  upon  the  child.  I  am  sure  he 
wanted  to  say  more,  but  all  at  once,  as  if  he 
suddenly  recollected  himself,  he  glanced  fur- 


OF   TALES 

lively  up  the  street,  and  then,  turning  as 
suddenly  the  other  way,  he  resumed  his 
course  downtown.  I  thought  to  myself 
that  he  was  a  kindly  old  gentleman,  a  trifle 
queer,  perhaps,  but  of  a  gentle  nature. 

Three  or  four  times  within  a  week  after 
that  a  similar  experience  with  this  old  gen 
tleman  befell  me  and  the  baby.  He  would 
greet  her  cheerily ;  sometimes  he  would  pat 
her  head,  and  I  saw  that  his  heart  warmed 
toward  her.  But  all  the  time  he  talked  with  us 
he  seemed  to  act  as  if  he  feared  he  was  being 
watched,  and  he  left  us  abruptly  —  some 
times  breaking  away  in  the  middle  of  a  sen 
tence  as  if  he  was  afraid  he  might  say  some 
thing  he  ought  not  to  say.  At  last,  however, 
1  learned  that  his  name  was  Blossom,  and 
that  Mrs.  Blossom  and  he  lived  alone  in  a 
fine  house  up  yonder  in  a  more  fashionable 
part  of  our  street.  In  an  outburst  of  confi 
dence  one  morning  he  told  me  that  he  was 
very  fond  of  children,  and  that  he  felt  that 
much  was  gone  out  of  his  life  because  no  little 
one  had  ever  come  to  Mary  and  himself. 

"  But,"  he  added  with  an  air  of  assumed 
cheerfulness,  "  as  Mary  does  not  like  children 
25 


SECOND   BOOK 

at  all,  it  is  perhaps  for  the  best  that  none  has 
ever  come  to  us." 

I  now  understood  why  Mr.  Blossom  was 
so  cautious  in  his  attentions  to  our  baby;  he 
was  fearful  of  being  observed  by  his  wife; 
he  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  humor  her  in 
her  disinclination  to  children.  I  pitied  the 
dear  old  gentleman,  and  for  the  same  reason 
conceived  a  violent  dislike  for  Mrs.  Blossom. 

But  my  wife  Cordelia  told  me  something 
one  day  that  set  my  heart  to  aching  for  both 
the  two  old  people. 

"A  sweet-looking  old  lady  passed  the 
house  this  afternoon,"  said  Cordelia,  "and 
took  notice  of  baby  asleep  in  my  arms  on  the 
porch.  She  stopped  and  asked  me  all  about 
her  and  presently  she  kissed  her,  and  then  1 
saw  that  she  was  crying  softly  to  herself. 
I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  lost  a  little  girl, 
and  she  said  no.  '  I  have  always  been  child 
less/  said  the  sweet  old  lady.  '  In  all  the 
years  of  my  wifehood  I  have  besought  but 
one  blessing  of  heaven  —  the  joy  of  mater 
nity.  My  prayers  are  unanswered,  and  it  is 
perhaps  better  so/  She  told  me  then  that 
her  husband  did  not  care  for  children;  she 

26 


OF  TALES 

could  hardly  reconcile  his  professed  antipathy 
to  them  with  his  warm,  gentle,  and  loyal 
nature;  but  it  was  well,  if  he  did  not  want 
children,  that  none  had  come." 

"What  was  the  old  lady's  name?"  I 
asked. 

"Mrs.  Blossom,"  said  my  wife  Cordelia. 

I  whistled  softly  to  myself.  Then  I  told 
Cordelia  of  my  experience  with  Mr.  Blossom, 
and  we  wondered  where  and  when  and  how 
this  pathetic  comedy  of  cross-purposes  would 
end.  We  talked  the  matter  over  many  a 
time  after  that,  and  we  agreed  that  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  an  instance  of  deception  more 
touching  than  that  which  we  had  met  with 
in  the  daily  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blossom. 
Meanwhile  the  two  old  people  became  more 
and  more  attached  to  our  precious  baby. 
Every  morning  brought  Mr.  Blossom  down 
the  street  with  a  smile  and  a  caress  and  a 
tender  word  for  the  little  one,  that  toddled 
to  meet  him  and  overwhelm  him  with  her 
innocent  prattle.  Every  afternoon  found  the 
sweet-looking  old  lady  in  front  of  our  house, 
fondling  our  child,  and  feeding  her  starv 
ing  maternal  instinct  upon  the  little  one's 
27 


SECOND   BOOK 

caresses.  Each  one  —  the  old  gentleman  and 
the  old  lady  —  each  one  confessed  by  action 
and  by  word  to  an  overwhelming  love  for 
children,  yet  between  them  stood  that  piti 
less  lie,  conceived  of  the  tenderest  consider 
ation  for  each  other,  but  resulting  in  lifelong 
misery. 

I  tell  you,  it  was  mighty  hard  sometimes 
for  Cordelia  and  me  not  to  break  out  with  the 
truth ! 

It  occurred  to  us  both  that  there  would 
eventually  come  a  time  when  the  friendship 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blossom  would  be  precious 
indeed  to  our  daughter.  We  had  great  hopes 
of  that  child,  and  all  our  day-dreams  involved 
her.  She  must  go  to  school,  she  must  be 
educated,  she  must  want  nothing;  there  was 
no  conceivable  sacrifice  which  Cordelia  and 
1  would  not  make  gladly  for  our  little  girl. 
Would  we  be  willing  to  share  her  love  with 
these  two  childless  old  people,  who  yearned 
for  that  love  and  were  ready  to  repay  it  with 
every  benefit  which  riches  can  supply  ?  We 
asked  ourselves  that  question  a  thousand 
times.  God  helped  us  to  answer  it. 

The  winter  set  in  early  and  suddenly.  We 
28 


OF   TALES 

were  awakened  one  night  by  that  hoarse, 
terrifying  sound  which  chills  the  parent  heart 
with  anxiety.  Our  little  one  was  flushed 
with  fever,  and  there  was  a  rattling  in  her 
throat  when  she  breathed.  When  the  doctor 
came  he  told  us  not  to  be  frightened ;  this 
was  a  mild  form  of  croup,  he  said.  His 
medicines  seemed  to  give  relief,  for  presently 
the  child  breathed  easier  and  slept.  Next 
morning  an  old  gentleman  on  his  way  down 
town  wondered  why  the  baby  was  not  out 
to  greet  him  with  a  hilarious  shout;  he  felt 
that  here  — all  about  his  heart  — which  told 
him  that  two  dimpled  hands  had  taken  hold 
and  held  him  fast.  An  old  lady  came  to  the 
door  that  day  and  asked  questions  hurriedly 
and  in  whispers,  and  went  away  crying  to 
herself  under  her  veil. 

When  it  came  night  again  the  baby  was 
as  good  as  well.  I  was  rocking  her  and 
telling  her  a  story,  when  the  door-bell  rang. 
A  moment  later  — I  could  hardly  believe  my 
senses,  but  Mr.  Blossom  stood  before  me. 

"I  heard  she  was  sick,"  said  he,  coming 
up  to  the  cradle  and  taking  the  baby's  hand 
awkwardly,  but  tenderly,  in  his.     * '  You  can 
29 


SECOND   BOOK 

never  know  how  I  have  suffered  all  day,  for 
this  little  one  has  grown  very  dear  to  me, 
and  I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  do  if  evil 
were  to  befall  her.  To-night  I  told  my  wife 
a  lie.  I  said  that  I  had  a  business  engage 
ment  that  called  me  downtown;  I  told  her 
that  in  order  to  hasten  here  without  letting 
her  know  the  truth.  She  does  not  like  chil 
dren;  I  would  not  for  the  world  have  her 
know  how  tenderly  I  love  this  little  one." 

He  was  still  talking  to  me  in  this  wise 
when  I  heard  a  step  upon  the  stairway.  I 
went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Mrs.  Blos 
som  stood  there. 

"  I  have  worried  all  day  about  the  baby," 
she  said,  excitedly.  "Fortunately,  Mr.  Blos 
som  was  called  downtown  this  evening,  and 
I  have  run  in  to  ask  how  our  precious  baby 
is.  I  must  go  away  at  once,  for  he  does  not 
care  for  children,  you  know,  and  I  would 
not  have  him  know  how  dear  this  babe  has 
grown  to  me!" 

Mrs.  Blossom  stood  on  the  threshold  as 

she  said  these  words.     And  then  she  saw 

the  familiar  form  of  the  dear  old  gentleman 

bending  over  the  cradle,  holding  the  baby's 

30 


OF  TALES 

hands  in  his.  Mr.  Blossom  had  recognized 
his  wife's  voice  and  heard  her  words. 

"Mary!"  he  cried,  and  he  turned  and 
faced  her.  She  said,  "Oh,  John!"  — that 
was  all,  and  her  head  drooped  upon  her 
breast.  So  there  they  stood  before  each 
other,  confronted  by  the  revelation  which 
they  had  thought  buried  in  long  and  many 
years. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak,  for  women  are 
braver  and  stronger  than  men.  She  accused 
herself  and  took  all  the  blame.  But  he 
would  not  listen  to  her  self-reproaches.  And 
they  spoke  to  each  other  —  I  know  not  what 
things,  only  that  they  were  tender  and  sweet 
and  of  consolation.  I  remember  that  at  the 
last  he  put  his  arm  about  her  as  if  he  had  not 
been  an  aged  man  and  she  were  not  white- 
haired  and  bowed,  but  as  if  they  two  were 
walking  in  the  springtime  of  their  love, 

"It  is  God's  will,"  he  said,  "and  let  us 
not  rebel  against  it.  The  journey  to  the  end 
is  but  a  little  longer  now;  we  have  come  so 
far  together,  and  surely  we  can  go  on  alone." 

"No,  not  alone,"  I  said,  for  the  inspira 
tion  came  to  me  then.  "Our  little  child 

3' 


SECOND   BOOK   OF  TALES 

yonder  —  God  has  lent  this  lambkin  to  our 
keeping —  share  her  love  with  us.  There  is 
so  much,  so  very  much  you  can  do  for  her 
which  we  cannot  do,  for  we  are  poor,  and 
you  are  rich.  Help  us  to  care  for  her  and 
share  her  love  with  us,  and  she  shall  be  your 
child  and  ours." 

That  was  the  compact  between  us  fifteen 
years  ago,  and  they  have  been  happy,  very 
happy  years.  Blossom  —  we  call  her  Blos 
som,  after  the  dear  old  friends  who  have 
been  so  good  to  her  and  to  us  —  she  comes 
from  school  to-night,  and  to-morrow  we 
shall  sit  down  to  Thanksgiving  dinner  with 
our  daughter.  We  always  speak  of  her  as 
''our  daughter,"  for,  you  know,  she  belongs 
now  no  more  to  Cordelia  and  me  than  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blossom. 


SDcatlj  anb  tfjc 

* 


DEATH   AND  THE   SOLDIER 


A  SOLDIER,  who  had  won  imperishable 
fame  on  the  battlefields  of  his  country, 
was  confronted  by  a  gaunt  stranger,  clad  all 
in  black  and  wearing  an  impenetrable  mask. 

"  Who  are  you  that  you  dare  to  block  my 
way  ?"  demanded  the  soldier. 

Then  the  stranger  drew  aside  his  mask, 
and  the  soldier  knew  that  he  was  Death. 

"  Have  you  come  for  me  ?  "  asked  the  sol 
dier.  "  If  so,  I  will  not  go  with  you ;  so  go 
your  way  alone." 

But  Death  held  out  his  bony  hand  and 
beckoned  to  the  soldier. 

"No,"  cried  the  soldier,  resolutely;  "my 
time  is  not  come.  See,  here  are  the  histo 
ries  I  am  writing  —  no  hand  but  mine  can 
finish  them  — I  will  not  go  till  they  are 
done! " 


SECOND    BOOK 

"I  have  ridden  by  your  side  day  and 
night,"  said  Death;  "I  have  hovered  about 
you  on  a  hundred  battlefields,  but  no  sight 
of  me  could  chill  your  heart  till  now,  and 
now  I  hold  you  in  my  power.  Come!  " 

And  with  these  words  Death  seized  upon 
the  soldier  and  strove  to  bear  him  hence,  but 
the  soldier  struggled  so  desperately  that  he 
prevailed  against  Death,  and  the  strange 
phantom  departed  alone.  Then  when  he 
had  gone  the  soldier  found  upon  his  throat 
the  imprint  of  Death's  cruel  fingers — so 
fierce  had  been  the  struggle.  And  nothing 
could  wash  away  the  marks  —  nay,  not  all 
the  skill  in  the  world  could  wash  them 
away,  for  they  were  disease,  lingering,  ag 
onizing,  fatal  disease.  But  with  quiet  valor 
the  soldier  returned  to  his  histories,  and  for 
many  days  thereafter  he  toiled  upon  them 
as  the  last  and  best  work  of  his  noble  life. 

"  How  pale  and  thin  the  soldier  is  getting," 
said  the  people.  "  His  hair  is  whitening 
and  his  eyes  are  weary.  He  should  not 
have  undertaken  the  histories  —  the  labor  is 
killing  him." 

They  did  not  know  of  his  struggle  with 

36 


OF   TALES 

Death,  nor  had  they  seen  the  marks  upon 
the  soldier's  throat.  But  the  physicians  who 
came  to  him,  and  saw  the  marks  of  Death's 
cruel  fingers,  shook  their  heads  and  said  the 
soldier  could  not  live  to  complete  the  work 
upon  which  his  whole  heart  was  set.  And 
the  soldier  knew  it,  too,  and  many  a  time  he 
paused  in  his  writing  and  laid  his  pen  aside 
and  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  and 
strove  for  consolation  in  the  thought  of  the 
great  fame  he  had  already  won.  But  there 
was  no  consolation  in  all  this.  So  when 
Death  came  a  second  time  he  found  the  sol 
dier  weak  and  trembling  and  emaciated. 

"  It  would  be  vain  of  you  to  struggle  with 
me  now,"  said  Death.  "My  poison  is  in 
your  veins,  and,  see,  my  dew  is  on  your 
brow.  But  you  are  a  brave  man,  and  I  will 
not  bear  you  with  me  till  you  have  asked 
one  favor,  which  I  will  grant." 

"  Give  me  an  hour  to  ask  the  favor, "said 
the  soldier.  "There  are  so  many  things  — 
my  histories  and  all  —  give  me  an  hour  that 
I  may  decide  what  I  shall  ask." 

And  as  Death  tarried,  the  soldier  com 
muned  with  himself.  Before  he  closed  his 

37 


SECOND   BOOK 

eyes  forever,  what  boon  should  he  ask  of 
Death?  And  the  soldier's  thoughts  sped 
back  over  the  years,  and  his  whole  life  came 
to  him  like  a  lightning  flash — the  compan 
ionship  and  smiles  of  kings,  the  glories  of 
government  and  political  power,  the  honors 
of  peace,  the  joys  of  conquest,  the  din  of 
battle,  the  sweets  of  a  quiet  home  life  upon 
a  western  prairie,  the  gentle  devotion  of  a 
wife,  the  clamor  of  noisy  boys,  and  the  face 
of  a  little  girl  — ah,  there  his  thoughts  lin 
gered  and  clung. 

' '  Time  to  complete  our  work  —  our  books 

—  our histories, "counselled Ambition.  "Ask 
Death  for  time  to  do  this  last  and  crowning 
act  of  our  great  life." 

But  the  soldier's  ears  were  deaf  to   the 
cries  of  Ambition;  they  heard  another  voice 

—  the   voice   of  the   soldier's    heart — and 
the  voice  whispered:     '  'Nellie  —  Nellie  - 
Nellie. "     That  was  all  —  no  other  words  but 
those,  and  the  soldier  struggled  to  his  feet 
and  stretched  forth  his  hands  and  called  to 
Death;  and,  hearing  him  calling,  Death  came 
and  stood  before  him. 

"  I  have  made  my  choice, "  said  the  soldier. 
38 


OF  TALES 

"  The  books  ?  "  asked  Death,  with  a  scorn 
ful  smile. 

"No,  not  them,"  said  the  soldier,  "but 
my  little  girl  —  my  Nellie!  Give  me  a  lease 
of  life  till  I  have  held  her  in  these  arms,  and 
then  come  for  me  and  I  will  go! " 

Then  Death's  hideous  aspect  was  changed ; 
his  stern  features  relaxed  and  a  look  of  pity 
came  upon  them.  And  Death  said,  "It 
shall  be  so,"  and  saying  this  he  went  his 
way. 

Now  the  soldier's  child  was  far  away  — 
many,  many  leagues  from  where  the  soldier 
lived,  beyond  a  broad,  tempestuous  ocean. 
She  was  not,  as  you  might  suppose,  a  little 
child,  although  the  soldier  spoke  of  her  as 
such.  She  was  a  wife  and  a  mother;  yet 
even  in  her  womanhood  she  was  to  the  sol 
dier's  heart  the  same  little  girl  the  soldier  had 
held  upon  his  knee  many  and  many  a  time 
while  his  rough  hands  weaved  prairie  flow 
ers  in  her  soft,  fair  curls.  And  the  soldier 
called  her  Nellie  now,  just  as  he  did  then, 
when  she  sat  on  his  knee  and  prattled  of  her 
dolls.  This  is  the  way  of  the  human  heart. 

It  having  been  noised  about  that  the  sol- 
39 


SECOND   BOOK 

dier  was  dying  and  that  Nellie  had  been  sent 
for  across  the  sea,  all  the  people  vied  with 
each  other  in  soothing  the  last  moments  of 
the  famous  man,  for  he  was  beloved  by  all 
and  all  were  bound  to  him  by  bonds  of 
patriotic  gratitude,  since  he  had  been  so 
brave  a  soldier  upon  the  battlefields  of  his 
country.  But  the  soldier  did  not  heed  their 
words  of  sympathy;  the  voice  of  fame, 
which,  in  the  past,  had  stirred  a  fever  in  his 
blood  and  fallen  most  pleasantly  upon  his 
ears,  awakened  no  emotion  in  his  bosom 
now.  The  soldier  thought  only  of  Nellie, 
and  he  awaited  her  coming. 

An  old  comrade  came  and  pressed  his 
hand,  and  talked  of  the  times  when  they 
went  to  the  wars  together;  and  the  old  com 
rade  told  of  this  battle  and  of  that,  and  how 
such  a  victory  was  won  and  such  a  city 
taken.  But  the  soldier's  ears  heard  no 
sound  of  battle  now,  and  his  eyes  could  see 
no  flash  of  sabre  nor  smoke  of  war. 

So  the  people  came  and  spoke  words  of 
veneration  and  love  and  hope,  and  so  with 
quiet  fortitude,  but  with  a  hungry  heart,  the 
soldier  waited  for  Nellie,  his  little  girl. 
40 


OF  TALES 

She  came  across  the  broad,  tempestuous 
ocean.  The  gulls  flew  far  out  from  land 
and  told  the  winds,  and  the  winds  flew 
further  still  and  said  to  the  ship:  "Speed 
on,  O  ship!  speed  on  in  thy  swift,  straight 
course,  for  you  are  bearing  a  treasure  to  a 
father's  heart ! " 

Then  the  ship  leapt  forward  in  her  path 
way,  and  the  waves  were  very  still,  and  the 
winds  kept  whispering  "Speed  on,  O  ship," 
till  at  last  the  ship  was  come  to  port  and 
the  little  girl  was  clasped  in  the  soldier's 
arms. 

Then  for  a  season  the  soldier  seemed 
quite  himself  again,  and  people  said  "  He 
will  live,"  and  they  prayed  that  he  might. 
But  their  hopes  and  prayers  were  vain. 
Death's  seal  was  on  the  soldier,  and  there 
was  no  release. 

The  last  days  of  the  soldier's  life  were  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  —  but  what  a  mockery 
of  ambition  and  fame  and  all  the  grand,  pre 
tentious  things  of  life  they  were!  They 
were  the  triumph  of  a  human  heart,  and 
what  is  better  or  purer  or  sweeter  than  that  ? 

No   thought  of  the  hundred  battlefields 

41 


SECOND   BOOK 

upon  which  his  valor  had  shown  conspic 
uous  came  to  the  soldier  now  —  nor  the 
echo  of  his  eternal  fame  —  nor  even  yet  the 
murmurs  of  a  sorrowing  people.  Nellie  was 
by  his  side,  and  his  hungry,  fainting  heart 
fed  on  her  dear  love  and  his  soul  went  back 
with  her  to  the  years  long  agone. 

Away  beyond  the  western  horizon  upon 
the  prairie  stands  a  little  home  over  which 
the  vines  trail.  All  about  it  is  the  tall,  wav 
ing  grass,  and  over  yonder  is  the  swale  with 
a  legion  of  chattering  blackbirds  perched  on 
its  swaying  reeds  and  rushes.  Bright  wild 
flowers  bloom  on  every  side,  the  quail  whis 
tles  on  the  pasture  fence,  and  from  his  home 
in  the  chimney  corner  the  cricket  tries  to 
chirrup  an  echo  to  the  lonely  bird's  call.  In 
this  little  prairie  home  we  see  a  man  holding 
on  his  knee  a  little  girl,  who  is  telling  him 
of  her  play  as  he  smooths  her  fair  curls  or 
strokes  her  tiny  velvet  hands;  or  perhaps 
she  is  singing  him  one  of  her  baby  songs, 
or  asking  him  strange  questions  of  the  great 
wide  world  that  is  so  new  to  her;  or  per 
haps  he  binds  the  wild  flowers  she  has 
brought  into  a  little  nosegay  for  her  new 
42 


OF   TALES 

gingham  dress,  or — but  we  see  it  all,  and 
so,  too,  does  the  soldier,  and  so  does  Nellie, 
and  they  hear  the  blackbird's  twitter  and  the 
quail's  shrill  call  and  the  cricket's  faint  echo, 
and  all  about  them  is  the  sweet,  subtle,  holy 
fragrance  of  memory. 

And  so  at  last,  when  Death  came  and  the 
soldier  fell  asleep  forever,  Nellie,  his  little 
girl,  was  holding  his  hands  and  whispering 
to  him  of  those  days.  Hers  were  the  last 
words  he  heard,  and  by  the  peace  that  rested 
on  his  face  when  he  was  dead  you  might 
have  thought  the  soldier  was  dreaming  of  a 
time  when  Nellie  prattled  on  his  knee  and 
bade  him  weave  the  wild  flowers  in  her 
curls. 


43 


€ljc  'SJinin' 


THE   'JIN1N'   FARMS 


YOU  see  Bill  an'  1  wuz  jest  like  brothers; 
wuz  raised  on  'jinin'  farms:  he  wuz 
//•is  folks'  only  child,  an'  /  wuz  my  folks'  only 
one.  So,  nat'ril  like,  we  growed  up  to 
gether,  lovin'  an'  sympathizin'  with  each 
other.  What  /  knowed,  I  told  Bill,  an'  what 
Bill  knowed,  be  told  me,  an'  what  neither 
on  us  knowed  — why,  that  warn't  wuth 
knowin'! 

If  I  had  n't  got  over  my  braggin'  days,  I  'd 
allow  that,  in  our  time,  Bill  an'  I  wuz  jest 
about  the  sparkin'est  beaus  in  the  township ; 
leastwise  that 's  what  the  girls  thought ;  but, 
to  be  honest  about  it,  there  wuz  only  two  uv 
them  girls  we  courted,  Bill  an'  I,  be  courtin' 
one  an'  I  t'other.  You  see  we  sung  in  the 
choir,  an'  as  our  good  luck  would  have  it 
we  got  sot  on  the  sopranner  an'  the  alto,  an' 
bimeby  — oh,  well,  after  beauin'  'em  round 

47 


SECOND   BOOK 

a  spell — a  year  or  so,  for  that  matter  —  we 
up  an'  married  'em,  an'  the  old  folks  gin  us 
the  farms,  jinin'  farms,  where  we  boys  had 
lived  all  our  lives.  Lizzie,  my  wife,  had  al 
ways  been  powerful  friendly  with  Marthy, 
Bill's  wife;  them  two  girls  never  met  up  but 
what  they  wuz  huggin'  an'  kissin'  an'  car- 
ryin'  on,  like  girls  does;  for  women  ain't 
like  men  —  they  can't  control  theirselves  an' 
their  feelin's,  like  the  stronger  sext  does. 

I  tell  you,  it  wuz  happy  times  for  Lizzie 
an'  me  and  Marthy  an'  Bill  —  happy  times  on 
the  'jinin'  farms,  with  the  pastures  full  uv 
fat  cattle,  an'  the  barns  full  uv  hay  an' grain, 
and  the  twin  cottages  full  uv  love  an'  con 
tentment!  Then  when  Cyrus  come — our 
/ittle  boy  —  our  first  an'  only  one!  why, 
when  he  come,  I  wuz  jest  so  happy  an'  so 
grateful  that  if  I  had  n't  been  a  man  I  guess 
I  'd  have  hollered  —  maybe  cried  —  with  joy. 
Wanted  to  call  the  little  tyke  Bill,  but  Bill 
would  n't  hear  to  nothin'  but  Cyrus.  You 
see,  he  'd  bought  a  cyclopeedy  the  winter 
we  wuz  all  marr'ed  an'  had  been  readin'  in 
it  uv  a  great  foreign  warrior  named  Cyrus 
that  lived  a  long  spell  ago. 


OF  TALES 

"Land  uv  Goshen,  Bill!"  sez  I,  "you 
don't  reckon  the  baby  '11  ever  be  a  war 
rior?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  sez  Bill. 
"There  's  no  tellin'.  At  any  rate,  Cyrus 
Ketcham  has  an  uncommon  sound  for  a 
name;  so  Cyrus  it  must  be,  an'  when  he  's 
seven  years  old  I  '11  gin  him  the  finest  Mor 
gan  colt  in  the  deestrick!  " 

So  we  called  him  Cyrus,  an'  he  grew  up 
lovin'  and  bein'  loved  by  everybody. 

Well,  along  about  two  years  —  or,  say, 
eighteen  months  or  so  —  after  Cyrus  come 
to  us  a  little  girl  baby  come  to  Bill  an'  Marthy, 
an'  of  all  the  cunnin'  sweet  little  things  you 
ever  seen  that  little  girl  baby  was  the  cun- 
nin'est  an'  sweetest!  Looked  jest  like  one  of 
them  foreign  crockery  figgers  you  buy  in 
city  stores — all  pink  an'  white,  with  big 
brown  eyes  here,  an'  a  teeny,  weeney  mouth 
there,  an'  a  nose  an'  ears,  you'd  have  bet 
they  wuz  wax  —  they  wuz  so  small  an' 
fragile.  Never  darst  hold  her  for  fear  I  'd 
break  her,  an'  it  liked  to  skeered  me  to 
death  to  see  the  way  Marthy  and  Lizzie 
would  kind  uv  toss  her  round  an'  trot  her  — 
49 


SECOND   BOOK 

so  —  on  their  knees  or  pat  her  —  so  —  on  the 
back  when  she  wuz  collicky  like  the  wim- 
min  folks  sezall  healthy  babies  is  afore  they 're 
three  months  old. 

"  You  'regoin'  to  have  the  namin'  uvher," 
sez  Bill  to  me. 

"Yes,"  sez  Marthy;  ''we  made  it  up 
atween  us  long  ago  that  you  should  have  the 
namin'  uv  our  baby  like  we  had  the  namin' 
LIV  yourn." 

Then,  kind  uv  hectorin'  like  —  for  I  was 
always  a  powerful  tease  —  I  sez:  "How 
would  Cleopatry  do  for  a  name  ?  or  Venis  ? 
I  have  been  readin'  the  cyclopeedy  myself, 
I  'd  have  you  know!  " 

An'  then  I  laffed  one  on  them  provokin' 
laffs  uv  mine  —  oh,  I  tell  ye,  I  was  the  worst 
feller  for  hectorin'  folks  you  ever  seen!  But 
I  meant  it  all  in  fun,  for  when  I  suspicioned 
they  did  n't  like  my  funnin',  I  sez:  "Bill," 
sez  I,  "an'  Marthy,  there  's  only  one  name 
I  'd  love  above  all  the  rest  to  call  your  little 
lambkin,  an'  that 's  the  dearest  name  on  earth 
to  me  —  the  name  uv  Lizzie,  my  wife!  " 

That  jest  suited  'em  to  a  T,  an'  always  after 
that  she  wuz  called  leetle  Lizzie,  an'  it  sot 
50 


OF  TALES 

on  her,  that  name  did,  like  it  was  made  for 
ber,  an'  she  for  //.  We  made  it  up  then  — 
perhaps  more  in  fun  than  anything  else- 
that  when  the  children  growed  up,  Cyrus 
an'  leetle  Lizzie,  they  should  get  marr'd  to 
gether,  an'  have  both  the  farms  an'  be  happy, 
an'  be  a  blessin'  to  us  all  in  our  old  age. 
We  made  it  up  in  fun,  perhaps,  but  down  in 
our  hearts  it  wuzour  prayer  jest  the  same,  and 
God  heard  the  prayer  an'  granted  it  to  be  so. 

They  played  together,  they  lived  together; 
together  they  tended  deestrick  school  an' 
went  huckleberryin' ;  there  wuz  huskin's 
an'  spellin'  bees  an'  choir  meetin's  an'  skat- 
in'  an'  slidin'  down-hill  — oh,  the  happy 
times  uv  youth!  an'  all  those  times  our  boy 
Cyrus  an'  their  leetle  Lizzie  went  lovin'ly 
together! 

What  made  me  start  so  — what  made  me 
ask  of  Bill  one  time:  "  Are  we  a-gettin'  old, 
Bill?"  that  wuz  the  Thanksgivin'  night 
when,  as  we  set  round  the  fire  in  Bill's  front- 
room,  Cyrus  come  to  us,  holdin'  leetle  Lizzie 
by  the  hand,  an'  they  asked  us  could  they 
get  marr'd  come  next  Thanksgivin'  time  ? 
Why,  it  seemed  only  yesterday  that  they 
51 


SECOND   BOOK 

wuz  chicks  together!  God!  how  swift  the 
years  go  by  when  they  are  happy  years! 

"  Reuben,"  sez  Bill  to  me,  "  le  's  go  down- 
cellar  and  draw  a  pitcher  uv  cider! " 

You  see  that,  bein'  men,  it  wuz  n't  for  us 
to  make  a  show  uv  ourselves.  Marty  an' 
Lizzie  just  hugged  each  other  an'  laughed  an' 
cried — they  wuz  so  glad!  Then  they  hugged 
Cyrus  an'  leetle  Lizzie]  and  talk  and  laff? 
Well,  it  did  beat  all  how  them  women  folks 
did  talk  and  laugh,  all  at  one  time!  Cyrus 
laffed,  too;  an:  then  he  said  he  reckoned  he  'd 
go  out  an'  throw  some  fodder  in  to  the  steers, 
and  Bill  an'  I — well,  zve  went  down-cellar 
to  draw  that  pitcher  uv  cider. 

It  ain't  for  me  to  tell  now  uv  the  meller 
sweetness  uv  their  courtin'  time;  I  could  n't 
do  it  if  I  tried.  Oh,  how  we  loved  'em  both ! 
Yet,  once  in  the  early  summer-time,  our  boy 
Cyrus  he  come  to  me  an'  said:  "Father,  I 
want  you  to  let  me  go  away  for  a  spell." 

"  Cyrus,  my  boy !     Go  away?" 

"  Yes,  father;  President  Linkern  has^called 
for  soldiers;  father,  you  have  always  taught 
me  to  obey  the  voice  of  Duty.  That  voice 
summons  me  now." 


OF  TALES 

"God  in  heaven,"  I  thought,  "you  have 
given  us  this  child  only  to  take  him  from 
us!" 

But  then  came  the  second  thought  : 
"Steady,  Reuben!  You  are  a  man;  be  a 
man!  Steady,  Reuben;  be  a  man!" 

"Yer  mother,"  sez  I,  "yer  mother  —  it 
will  break  her  heart!  " 

"She  leaves  it  all  to  you,  father." 

"But  —  the  other  —  the  other,  Cyrus  — 
leetle  Lizzie  —  ye  know!" 

"She  is  content,"  sez  he. 

A  storm  swep'  through  me  like  a  cyclone. 
It  wuz  all  Bill's  fault;  that  warrior-name  had 
done  it  all  —  the  cyclopeedy  with  its  lies  had 
pizened  Bill's  mind  to  put  this  trouble  on  me 
an'  mine! 

No,  no,  a  thousand  times  no !  These  wuz 
coward  feelin's  an'  they  misbecome  me ;  the 
ache  here  in  this  heart  uv  mine  had  no  busi 
ness  there.  The  better  part  uv  me  called  to 
me  an' said:  "  Pull  yourself  together,  Reuben 
Ketcham,  and  be  a  man!  " 

Well,  after  he  went  away,  leetle  Lizzie 
wuz  more  to  us  'n  ever  before;  wuz  at  our 
house  all  the  time;  called  Lizzie  "mother"; 
53 


SECOND   BOOK 

wuz  contented,  in  her  woman's  way,  willin' 
to  do  her  part,  waitin'  an'  watchin'  an'  prayin' 
for  him  to  come  back.  They  sent  him  boxes 
of  good  things  every  fortnight,  mother  an' 
leetle  Lizzie  did;  there  wuz  n't  a  minute  uv 
the  day  that  they  wuz  n't  talkin'  or  thinkin' 
uv  him. 

Well  —  ye  —  see  —  I  must  tell  it  my  own 
way  —  he  got  killed.  In  the  very  first  battle 
Cyrus  got  killed.  The  rest  uv  the  soldiers 
turnt  to  retreat,  because  there  wuz  too  many 
for  'em  on  the  other  side.  But  Cyrus  stood 
right  up;  he  wuz  the  warrior  Bill  allowed 
he  wuz  goin'  to  be;  our  boy  wuz  n't  the 
kind  to  run.  They  tell  me  there  wuz  bullet 
holes  here,  an'  here,  an'  here  —  all  over  his 
breast.  We  always  knew  our  boy  wuz  a 
hero ! 

Ye  can  thank  God  ye  wuz  n't  at  the  'jinin' 
farms  when  the  news  come  that  he  'd  got 
killed.  The  neighbors,  they  were  there,  of 
course,  to  kind  uv  hold  us  up  an'  comfort  us. 
Bill  an'  I  sot  all  day  in  the  woodshed,  holrU'n' 
hands  an'  lookin'away  from  each  other,  so; 
never  said  a  word;  jest  sot  there,  sympa- 
thizin'  an'  holdin'  hands.  If  we  'd  been  wo- 

54 


OF  TALES 

men,  Bill  an'  I  would  uv  cried  an'  beat  our 
forrids  an'  hung  round  each  other's  neck,  like 
the  womenfolks  done.  Bein'  we  wuz  men, 
we  jest  set  there  in  the  woodshed,  away  from 
all  the  rest,  holdin'  hands  an'  sympathizin'. 

From  that  time  on,  leetle  Lizzie  wuz  our 
daughter — our  very  daughter,  all  that  wuz 
left  to  us  uv  our  boy.  She  never  shed  a  tear ; 
crep'  like  a  shadder  'round  the  house  an'  up 
the  front  walk  an'  through  the  garden.  Her 
heart  wuz  broke.  You  could  see  it  in  the 
leetle  lambkin's  eyes  an'  hear  it  in  her  voice. 
Wanted  to  tell  her  sometimes  when  she 
kissed  me  and  called  me  "father  "  —  wanted 
to  tell  her,  "  Leetle  Lizzie,  let  me  help  ye 
bear  yer  load.  Speak  out  the  sorrer  that 's 
in  yer  broken  heart;  speak  it  out,  leetle  one, 
an'  let  me  help  yer  bear  yer  load !  " 

But  it  is  n't  for  a  man  to  have  them  feelin's 
—  leastwise,  it  is  n't  for  him  to  tell  uv  'em. 
So  I  held  my  peace  and  made  no  sign. 

She  jest  drooped,  an'  pined,  an'  died. 
One  mornin'  in  the  spring  she  wuz  standin' 
in  the  garden,  an'  all  at  oncet  she  threw  her 
arms  up,  so,  an'  fell  upon  her  face,  an'  when 
they  got  to  her  all  thet  wuz  left  to  us  uv  leetle 
55 


SECOND   BOOK 

Lizzie  wuz  her  lifeless  leetle  body.  I  can't 
tell  of  what  happened  next  —  uv  the  funeral 
an'  all  that.  I  said  this  wuz  in  the  spring, 
an'  so  it  wuz  all  around  us;  but  it  wuz  cold 
and  winter  here. 

One  day  mother  sez  to  me:  "  Reuben," 
sezshe,  softlike,  "  Marthy  an'  I  isgoin'  to  the 
buryin'  ground  for  a  spell.  Don't  you  reckon 
it  would  be  a  good  time  for  you  to  step  over 
an'  see  Bill  while  we  're  gone?" 

"Mebbe  so,  mother,"  sez  1. 

It  wuz  a  pretty  day.  Cuttin'  across  lots,  I 
thought  to  myself  what  I  'd  say  to  Bill  to 
kind  uv  comfort  him.  I  made  it  up  that  I  'd 
speak  about  the  time  when  we  wuz  boys  to 
gether;  uv  how  we  used  to  slide  down  the 
meetin'-house  hill,  an'  go  huckleberryin';  uv 
how  I  jumped  into  the  pond  one  day  an' 
saved  him  from  bein'  drownded;  uv  the 
spellin'  school,  the  huskin'  bees,  the  choir 
meetin's,  the  sparkin'  times;  of  the  swim- 
min'  hole,  the  crow's  nest  in  the  pine-tree, 
the  woodchuck's  hole  in  the  old  pasture  lot; 
uv  the  sunny  summer  days  an'  the  snug 
winter  nights  when  we  wuz  boys,  an'  happy ! 

And  then 

56 


OF  TALES 

No,  no!  I  could  n't  go  on  like  that!  I'd 
break  down.  A  man  can't  be  a  man  more  'n 
jest  so  far! 

Why  did  mother  send  me  over  to  see 
Bill?  I  'd  better  stayed  to  home!  I  felt 
myself  chokin'  up,  if  I  had  n't  took  a 
chew  uv  terbacker,  I  'd  'ave  been  cryin',  in 
a  minute! 

The  nearer  I  got  to  Bill's,  the  worst  I  hated 
to  go  in.  Standin'  on  the  stoop,  I  could 
hear  the  tall  clock  tickin'  solemnly  inside  — 
"tick-tock,  tick-tock,"  jest  as  plain  as  if  I 
wuz  settin'  aside  uv  it.  The  door  wuz  shet, 
yet  I  knew  jest  what  Bill  wuz  doin' ;  he  was 
settin'  in  the  old  red  easy-chair,  lookin' 
down  at  the  floor  —  like  this.  Strange, 
ain't  it,  how  sometimes  when  you  love  folks 
you  know  jest  what  they  're  doin',  without 
knowin'  anything  about  it! 

There  warn't  no  use  knockin',  but  I 
knocked  three  times ;  so.  Did  n't  say  a  word ; 
only  jest  knocked  three  times  —  that  a- way. 
Did  n't  hear  no  answer  —  nothin'  but  the 
tickin'  uv  the  tall  clock;  an'  yet  I  knew  that 
Bill  heered  me  an'  that  down  in  his  heart  he 
was  sayin'  to  me  to  come  in.  He  never 

57 


SECOND   BOOK 

said  a  word,  yet  I  knowed  all  the  time  Bill 
wuz  sayin'  for  me  to  come  in. 

I  opened  the  door,  keerful-like,  an'  slipped 
in.  Did  n't  say  nothin' ;  jest  opened  the  door, 
softly-like,  an'  slipped  in.  There  set  Bill 
jist  as  I  knowed  he  was  settin',  lonesome- 
like,  sad-like;  his  head  hangin'  down;  he 
never  looked  up  at  me ;  never  said  a  word  - 
knowed  I  wuz  there  all  the  time,  but  never 
said  a  word  an'  never  made  a  sign. 

How  changed    Bill  wuz  — oh,  Bill,  how 
changed  ye  wuz!     There  wuz  furrers  in  yer 
face  an'  yer  hair  wuz  white  —  as  white  as  - 
as  white  as  mine!     Looked  small  about  the 
body,  thin  an'  hump-shouldered. 

Jest  two  ol'  men,  that  's  what  we  wuz; 
an'  we  had  been  boys  together! 

Well,  I  stood  there  a  spell,  kind  uv  hesi- 
tatin'  like,  neither  uv  us  sayin'  anything,  un 
til  bimeby  Bill  he  sort  of  made  a  sign  for  me 
to  set  down.  Did  n't  speak,  did  n't  lift  his 
eyes  from  the  floor;  only  made  a  sign,  like 
this,  in  a  weak,  tremblin'  way  —  that  wuz 
all.  An'  I  set  down,  and  there  we  both  set, 
neither  uv  us  sayin'  a  word,  but  both  settin' 
there,  lovin'  each  other,  an'  sympathizin'  as 
58 


OF  TALES 


hard  as  we  could,  for  that  is  the  way  with 
men. 

Bimeby,  like  we  'd  kind  uv  made  it  up 
aforehand,  we  hitched  up  closer,  for  when 
folks  is  in  sorrer  an'  trouble  they  like  to  be 
closte  together.  But  not  a  word  all  the  time, 
an'  hitchin'  closer  an'  closer  together,  why, 
bimeby  we  set  side  by  side.  So  we  set  a 
spell  longer,  lovin'  an'  sympathizing  as  men- 
folks  do;  thinkin'  uv  the  old  times,  uv  our 
boyhood;  thinkin'  uv  the  happiness  uv  the 
past  an'  uv  all  the  hopes  them  two  children 
had  brought  us!  The  tall  clock  ticked,  an' 
that  wuz  all  the  sound  there  wuz,  excep' 
when  Bill  gin  a  sigh  an'  I  gin  a  sigh,  too  — 
to  lighten  the  load,  ye  know. 

Not  a  word  come  from  either  of  us:  't  wuz 
all  we  could  do  to  set  there,  lovin'  each  other 
an'  sympathizing 

All  at  oncet  — for  we  could  n't  stand  it  no 
longer  — all  at  oncet  we  turnt  our  faces 
t'  other  way  an'  reached  out,  so,  an'  groped 
with  our  hands,  this  way,  till  we  found  an' 
held  each  other  fast  in  a  clasp  uv  tender 
meanin'. 

Then  —  God  forgive  me  if  I  done  a  wrong 

59 


SECOND    BOOK   OF   TALES 

-then  I  wisht  I  wuza  woman!  For,  bein' 
a  woman,  I  could  have  riz  up,  an',  standin' 
so,  I  could  have  cried:  "Come,  Bill!  come, 
let  me  hold  you  in  these  arms;  come,  let  us 
weep  together,  an'  let  this  broken  heart  uv 
mine  speak  through  these  tremblin'  lips  to 
that  broken  heart  uv  yourn,  Bill,  tellin'  ye 
how  much  I  love  ye  an'  sympathize  with 
ye!" 

But — no!  I  wuz  not  a  woman!  I  wuz 
a  man!  an',  bein'  a  man,  I  must  let  my 
heart  break ;  I  must  hold  my  peace,  an'  I  must 
make  no  sign. 


60 


3tngd  anb  tlje  jpfotocrg 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  FLOWERS 


AN  angel  once  asked  the  Father  if  he 
might  leave  heaven  for  a  day  and  go 
down  to  earth  to  visit  the  flowers  and  birds 
and  little  children,  for  you  must  know  that 
no  other  earthly  things  so  much  please  the 
angels  of  heaven  as  do  the  flowers,  the  birds, 
and  the  little  children. 

''Yes,"  said  the  Father,  "you  may  go 
down  to  earth,  but  be  sure  to  stay  no  long 
er  than  a  day;  and  when  you  come  back 
to  heaven  bring  me  the  loveliest  flower  you 
can  find,  that  I  may  transplant  it  to  my  gar 
den  and  love  it  for  its  beauty  and  its  fra 
grance.  Cherish  it  tenderly,  that  no  harm 
may  befall  it." 

Then  the  angel  went  down  to  the  earth, 
and  he  came  to  a  beautiful  rose-bush  upon 
which  bloomed  a  rose   lovelier  and   more 
fragrant  than  any  of  her  kind. 
63 


SECOND    BOOK 

"Heyday,  sweet  rose,"  said  the  angel; 
"how  proudly  you  hold  up  your  fair  head 
for  the  winds  to  kiss." 

"Ay,  that  I  do,"  replied  the  rose,  blush 
ing,  albeit  she  enjoyed  the  flattery.  "  But  I 
do  not  care  for  these  idle  zephyrs  nor  for  the 
wanton  sunbeams  that  dance  among  my 
leaves  all  the  day  long.  To-night  a  cavalier 
will  come  hither  and  tear  me  from  this  awk 
ward  bush  with  all  its  thorns,  and  kiss  me 
with  impassioned  lips,  and  bear  me  to  his 
lady,  who,  too,  will  kiss  me  and  wear  me  on 
her  bosom,  next  her  heart.  That,  O  angel,  is 
the  glory  of  the  rose — to  be  a  bearer  of  kisses 
from  lover  to  lover,  and  to  hear  the  whispered 
vows  of  the  cavalier  and  his  lady,  to  feel  the 
beating  of  a  gentle  heart,  and  to  wither  on 
the  white  bosom  of  a  wooed  maiden." 

Then  the  angel  came  to  a  lily  that  arose 
fair  and  majestic  from  its  waxen  leaves  and 
bowed  gracefully  to  each  passing  breeze. 

"  Why  are  you  so  pale  and  sad,  dear  lily  ?" 
asked  the  angel. 

"  My  love  is  the  north  wind, "  said  the  lily, 
"  and  I  look  for  him  and  mourn  because  he 
does  not  come.  And  when  he  does  come, 
64 


OF  TALES 

and  I  would  smile  under  his  caresses,  he  is 
cold  and  harsh  and  cruel  to  me,  and  I  wither 
and  die  for  a  season,  and  when  I  am  wooed 
back  to  life  again  by  the  smiles  and  tears  of 
heaven,  which  are  the  sunlight  and  the  dew, 
lo!  he  is  gone." 

The  angel  smiled  sadly  to  hear  of  the 
trusting,  virgin  fidelity  of  the  lily. 

"  Tell  me,"  asked  the  lily,  "will  the  north 
wind  come  to-day  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  angel,  "nor  for  many 
days  yet,  since  it  is  early  summer  now." 

But  the  lonely  lily  did  not  believe  the  an 
gel's  words.  Still  looking  for  her  cruel 
lover,  she  held  her  pale  face  aloft  and  ques 
tioned  each  zephyr  that  hurried  by.  And 
the  angel  went  his  way. 

And  the  angel  came  next  to  a  daisy  that 
thrived  in  a  meadow  where  the  cattle  were 
grazing  and  the  lambs  were  frisking. 

"Nay,  do  not  pluck  me,  sir,"  cried  the 
daisy,  merrily;  "I  would  not  exchange  my 
home  in  this  smiling  pasture  for  a  place  upon 
the  princess'  bosom." 

"You  seem  very  blithesome,  little  daisy," 
quoth  the  angel. 


SECOND   BOOK 

"So  I  am,  and  why  should  I  not  be?" 
rejoined  the  daisy.  "The  dews  bathe  me 
with  their  kisses,  and  the  stars  wink  merrily 
at  me  all  the  night  through,  and  during  the 
day  the  bees  come  and  sing  their  songs  to 
me,  and  the  little  lambs  frisk  about  me,  and 
the  big  cattle  caress  me  gently  with  their 
rough  tongues,  and  all  seem  to  say  *  Bloom 
on,  little  daisy,  for  we  love  you.'  So  we 
frolic  here  on  the  meadow  all  the  time  —  the 
lambs,  the  bees,  the  cattle,  the  stars,  and  I 
—  and  we  are  very,  very  happy." 

Next  the  angel  came  to  a  camellia  which 
was  most  beautiful  to  look  upon.  But  the 
camellia  made  no  reply  to  the  angel's  saluta 
tion,  for  the  camellia,  having  no  fragrance,  is 
dumb  — for  flowers,  you  must  know,  speak 
by  means  of  their  scented  breath.  The 
camellia,  therefore,  could  say  no  word  to  the 
angel,  so  the  angel  walked  on  in  silent  sad 
ness. 

"Look  at  me,  good  angel,"  cried  the 
honeysuckle;  "see  how  adventuresome  I 
am.  At  the  top  of  this  trellis  dwells  a  lady 
bird,  and  in  her  cozy  nest  are  three  daugh 
ters,  the  youngest  of  whom  1  go  to  woo.  I 
66 


OF  TALES 

carry  sweetmeats  with  me  to  tempt  the 
pretty  dear;  do  you  think  she  will  love  me?" 

The  angel  laughed  at  the  honeysuckle's 
quaint  conceit,  but  made  no  reply,  for  yon 
der  he  saw  a  purple  aster  he  fain  would 
question. 

"  Are  you  then  so  busy,"  asked  the  angel, 
"that  you  turn  your  head  away  from  every 
other  thing  and  look  always  into  the  sky  ?  " 

"Do  not  interrupt  me,"  murmured  the 
purple  aster.  "I  love  the  great  luminous 
sun,  and  whither  he  rolls  in  the  blazing 
heavens  I  turn  my  face  in  awe  and  venera 
tion.  I  would  be  the  bride  of  the  sun,  but 
he  only  smiles  down  upon  my  devotion  and 
beauty!  " 

So  the  angel  wandered  among  the  flowers 
all  the  day  long  and  talked  with  them.  And 
toward  evening  he  came  to  a  little  grave 
which  was  freshly  made. 

11  Do  not  tread  upon  us,"  said  the  violets. 
"Let  us  cluster  here  over  this  sacred  mound 
and  sing  our  lullabies." 

"To  whom  do  you  sing,  little  flowers  ? " 
asked  the  angel. 

"  We  sing  to  the  child  that  lies  sleeping  be- 
67 


SECOND   BOOK  OF  TALES 

neath  us,"  replied  the  violets.  "  All  through 
the  seasons,  even  under  the  snows  of  winter, 
we  nestle  close  to  this  mound  and  sing  to 
the  sleeping  child.  None  but  he  hears  us, 
and  his  soul  is  lulled  by  our  gentle  music." 

"  But  do  you  not  often  long  for  other  oc 
cupation,  for  loftier  service?"  inquired  the 
angel 

"  Nay,"  said  the  violets,  "  we  are  content, 
for  we  love  to  sing  to  the  little,  sleeping 
child." 

The  angel  was  touched  by  the  sweet  hu 
mility  of  these  modest  flowers.  He  wept, 
and  his  tears  fell  upon  the  grave,  and  the 
flowers  drank  up  the  angel  tears  and  sang 
more  sweetly  than  before,  but  so  softly  that 
only  the  sleeping  child  heard  them. 

And  when  the  angel  flew  back  to  heaven, 
he  cherished  a  violet  in  his  bosom. 


68 


Setter 


THE  CHILD'S  LETTER 


EVERYBODY  was  afraid  of  the  old  gov 
ernor  because  he  was  so  cross  and 
surly.  And  one  morning  he  was  crosser 
and  surlier  than  ever,  because  he  had  been 
troubled  for  several  days  with  a  matter 
which  he  had  already  decided,  but  which 
many  people  wished  to  have  reversed.  A 
man,  found  guilty  of  a  crime,  had  been  im 
prisoned,  and  there  were  those  who,  con 
vinced  of  his  penitence  and  knowing  that  his 
family  needed  his  support,  earnestly  sought 
his  pardon.  To  all  these  solicitations  the 
old  governor  replied  "no,"  and,  having 
made  up  his  mind,  the  old  governor  had  no 
patience  with  those  who  persisted  in  their 
intercessions.  So  the  old  governor  was  in 
high  dudgeon  one  morning,  and  when  he 
came  to  his  office  he  said  to  his  secretary: 
71 


SECOND   BOOK 

"Admit  no  one  to  see  me;  I  am  weary  of 
these  constant  and  senseless  importunities." 

Now,  the  secretary  had  a  discreet  regard 
for  the  old  governor's  feelings,  and  it  was 
seldom  that  his  presence  of  mind  so  far  de 
serted  him  as  to  admit  of  his  suffering  the 
old  governor's  wishes  to  be  disregarded. 
He  bolted  the  door  and  sat  himself  down  at 
his  modest  desk  and  simulated  intense  en 
thusiasm  in  his  work.  His  simulation  was 
more  intense  than  usual,  for  never  before 
had  the  secretary  seen  the  old  governor  in 
such  a  harsh  mood. 

"Has  the  mail  come — where  are  the 
papers  and  the  letters  ?  "  demanded  the  old 
governor,  in  a  gruff  voice. 

"Here  they  are,  sir,"  said  the  secretary, 
as  he  put  the  bundle  on  the  old  governor's 
table.  "These  are  addressed  to  you  pri 
vately;  the  business  letters  are  on  my  desk. 
Would  you  like  to  see  them  now  ?" 

"No,  not  now,"  growled  the  old  gov 
ernor;  "  I  will  read  the  papers  and  my  pri 
vate  correspondence  first." 

But  the  old  governor  found  cause  for  un 
easiness  in  this  employment.  The  papers 
72 


OF  TALES 

discussed  the  affair  of  the  imprisoned  man, 
and  these  private  letters  came  from  certain 
of  the  old  governor's  friends,  who,  strangely 
enough,  exhibited  an  interest  in  the  self-same 
prisoner's  affair.  The  old  governor  was 
highly  disgusted. 

"  They  should  mind  their  own  business," 
muttered  the  old  governor.  "The  papers 
are  very  officious,  and  these  other  people 
are  simply  impertinent.  My  mind  is  made 
up  —  nothing  shall  change  me!  " 

Then  the  old  governor  turned  to  his  pri 
vate  secretary  and  bade  him  bring  the  busi 
ness  letters,  and  presently  the  private  secre 
tary  could  hear  the  old  governor  growling 
and  fumbling  over  the  pile  of  correspond 
ence.  He  knew  why  the  old  governor  was 
so  excited ;  many  of  these  letters  were  pe 
titions  from  the  people  touching  the  affair  of 
the  imprisoned  man.  Oh,  how  they  angered 
the  old  governor! 

"Humph!"  said  the  old  governor  at  last, 
"  I'm  glad  I  'm  done  with  them.  There  are 
no  more,  I  suppose." 

When  the  secretary  made  no  reply  the  old 
governor  was  surprised.  He  wheeled  in 

73 


SECOND   BOOK 

his  chair  and  searchingly  regarded  the  sec 
retary  over  his  spectacles.  He  saw  that  the 
secretary  was  strangely  embarrassed. 

"You  have  not  shown  me  all,"  said  the 
old  governor,  sternly.  "What  is  it  you 
have  kept  back  ?" 

Then  the  secretary  said:  "  I  had  thought 
not  to  show  it  to  you.  It  is  nothing  but  a 
little  child's  letter — I  thought  I  should  not 
bother  you  with  it." 

The  old  governor  was  interested.  "  A 
child's  letter  to  him  —  what  could  it  be  about  ? 
Such  a  thing  had  never  happened  to  him 
before. 

"  A  child's  letter;  let  me  see  it,"  said  the 
old  governor,  and,  although  his  voice  was 
harsh,  somewhat  of  a  tender  light  came  into 
his  eyes. 

"T  is  nothing  but  a  scrawl, "explained  the 
secretary,  "  and  it  comes  from  the  prisoner's 
child  —  Monckton's  little  girl — Monckton, 
the  forger,  you  know.  Of  course  there's 
nothing  to  it  —  a  mere  scrawl;  for  the  child 
is  only  four  years  old.  But  the  gentleman 
who  sends  it  says  the  child  brought  it  to  him 
and  asked  him  to  send  it  to  the  governor, 
74 


OF   TALES 

and  then,  perhaps,  the  governor  would  send 
her  papa  home. 

The  old  governor  took  the  letter,  and  he 
scanned  it  curiously.  What  a  wonderful 
letter  it  was,  and  who  but  a  little  child  could 
have  written  it !  Such  strange  hieroglyphics 
and  such  crooked  lines  —  oh!  it  was  a  won 
derful  letter,  as  you  can  imagine. 

But  the  old  governor  saw  something  more 
than  the  strange  hieroglyphics  and  crooked 
lines  and  rude  pencillings.  He  could  see  in 
and  between  the  lines  of  the  little  child's  let 
ter  a  sweetness  and  a  pathos  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  on  the  crumpled  sheet  he 
found  a  love  like  the  love  his  bereaved  heart 
had  vainly  yearned  for,  oh !  so  many  years. 

He  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  a  little  head 
bending  over  the  crumpled  page,  a  dimpled 
hand  toiling  at  its  rude  labor  of  love,  and  an 
earnest  little  face  smiling  at  the  thought  that 
this  labor  would  not  be  in  vain.  And  how 
wearied  the  little  hand  grew  and  how  sleepy 
the  little  head  became,  but  the  loyal  little 
heart  throbbed  on  and  on  with  patient  joy, 
and  neither  hand  nor  head  rested  till  the 
task  was  done. 

75 


SECOND   BOOK 

Sweet  innocence  of  childhood!  Who 
would  molest  thee — -who  bring  thee  one 
shadow  of  sorrow  ?  Who  would  not  rather 
brave  all  dangers,  endure  all  fatigues,  and  bear 
all  burdens  to  shield  thee  from  the  worldly 
ills  thou  dream'st  not  of ! 

So  thought  the  old  governor,  as  he  looked 
upon  the  crumpled  page  and  saw  and  heard 
the  pleadings  of  the  child's  letter;  for  you 
must  know  that  from  the  crumpled  page 
there  stole  a  thousand  gentle  voices  that 
murmured  in  his  ears  so  sweetly  that  his 
heart  seemed  full  of  tears.  And  the  old 
governor  thought  of  his  own  little  one  — 
God  rest  her  innocent  soul.  And  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  could  hear  her  dear  baby 
voice  joining  with  this  other's  in  trustful 
pleading. 

The  secretary  was  amazed  when  the  old 
governor  said  to  him:  "  Give  me  a  pardon 
blank."  But  what  most  amazed  the  secre 
tary  was  the  tremulous  tenderness  in  the  old 
governor's  voice  and  the  mistiness  behind 
the  old  governor's  spectacles  as  he  folded  the 
crumpled  page  reverently  and  put  it  care 
fully  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  greatcoat. 
76 


OF  TALES 

11  Humph,"  thought  the  secretary,  "the 
old  governor  has  a  kinder  heart  than  any  of 
us  suspected." 

Then,  when  the  prisoner  was  pardoned 
and  came  from  his  cell,  people  grasped  him 
by  the  hand  and  said:  "Our  eloquence  and 
perseverance  saved  you.  The  old  governor 
could  not  withstand  the  pressure  we  brought 
to  bear  on  him!  " 

But  the  secretary  knew,  and  the  old  gov 
ernor,  too  —  God  bless  him  for  his  human 
heart!  They  knew  that  it  was  the  sacred 
influence  of  a  little  child's  letter  that  had 
done  it  all  — that  a  dimpled  baby  hand  had 
opened  those  prison  doors. 


77 


fl^otljer 


THE   SINGER   MOTHER 


ONCE,  as  Death  walked  the  earth  in 
search  of  some  fair  flower  upon  which 
he  could  breathe  his  icy  breath,  he  met  the 
graceful  and  pleasing  spirit  who  is  called 
Ambition. 

"Good  morrow,"  quoth  Death,  'Met  us 
journey  a  time  together.  Both  of  us  are 
hale  fellows;  let  us  henceforth  be  travelling 
companions." 

Now  Ambition  is  one  of  the  most  easily 
cajoled  persons  in  the  world.  The  soft 
words  of  Death  flattered  him.  So  Death 
and  Ambition  set  out  together,  hand  in 
hand. 

And  having  come  into  a  great  city,  they 
were  walking  in  a  fine  street  when  they  be 
held  at  the  window  of  a  certain  house  a  lady 
who  was  named  Griselda.  She  was  sitting 
at  the  window,  fondling  in  her  lap  her  child,  a 
81 


SECOND    BOOK 

beautiful  little  infant  that  held  out  his  dimpled 
arms  to  the  mother  and  prattled  sweet  little 
things  which  only  a  mother  can  understand. 

''What  a  beautiful  lady,"  said  Ambition, 
"  and  what  a  wonderful  song  she  is  singing 
to  the  child." 

"You  may  praise  the  mother  as  you  will," 
said  Death,  "but  it  is  the  child  which  en 
gages  my  attention  and  absorbs  my  admira 
tion.  How  I  wish  the  child  were  mine!" 

But  Ambition  continued  to  regard  Griselda 
with  an  eye  of  covetousness;  the  song  Gri 
selda  sang  to  her  babe  seemed  to  have  ex 
erted  a  wondrous  spell  over  the  spirit. 

"I  know  a  way,"  suggested  Death,  "by 
which  we  can  possess  ourselves  of  these 
two  —  you  of  the  mother  and  I  of  the  child. " 

Ambition's  eyes  sparkled.  He  longed  for 
the  beautiful  mother. 

"  Tell  me  how  I  may  win  her,"  said  he  to 
Death,  "  and  you  shall  have  the  babe." 

So  Death  and  Ambition  walked  in  the 
street  and  talked  of  Griselda  and  her  child. 

Griselda  was  a  famous  singer.  She  sang 
in  the  theatre  of  the  great  city,  and  people 
came  from  all  parts  of  the  world  to  hear  her 
82 


OF  TALES 

songs  and  join  in  her  praise.  Such  a  voice 
had  never  before  been  heard,  and  Griselda's 
fame  was  equalled  only  by  the  riches  which 
her  art  had  brought  her.  In  the  height  of 
her  career  the  little  babe  came  to  make  her 
life  all  the  sweeter,  and  Griselda  was  indeed 
very  happy. 

' '  Who  is  that  at  the  door  ?  "  inquired  Char 
lotte,  the  old  nurse.  "  It  must  be  somebody 
of  consequence,  for  he  knocks  with  a  certain 
confidence  only  those  in  authority  have." 

"Go  to  the  door  and  see,"  said  Griselda. 

So  Charlotte  went  to  the  door,  and  lo, 
there  was  a  messenger  from  the  king,  and 
the  messenger  was  accompanied  by  two  per 
sons  attired  in  royal  robes. 

These  companions  were  Ambition  and 
Death,  but  they  were  so  splendidly  arrayed 
you  never  would  have  recognized  them. 

"Does  the  Lady  Griselda  abide  here?1' 
asked  the  messenger. 

"She  does,"  replied  old  Charlotte,  courte- 
sying  very  low,  for  the  brilliant  attire  of  the 
strangers  dazzled  her. 

"I  have  a  message  from  the  king,"  said 
the  messenger. 

83 


SECOND   BOOK 

Old  Charlotte  could  hardly  believe  her 
ears.  A  message  from  the  king!  Never 
before  had  such  an  honor  befallen  one  in 
Griselda's  station. 

The  message  besought  Griselda  to  appear 
in  the  theatre  that  night  before  the  king,  who 
knew  of  her  wondrous  voice,  but  had  never 
heard  it.  And  with  the  message  came  a 
royal  gift  of  costly  jewels,  the  like  of  which 
Griselda  had  never  set  eyes  upon. 

"You  cannot  refuse,"  said  Ambition  in  a 
seductive  voice.  "Such  an  opportunity 
never  before  was  accorded  you  and  may 
never  again  be  offered.  It  is  the  king  for 
whom  you  are  to  sing!  " 

Griselda  hesitated  and  cast  a  lingering 
look  at  her  babe. 

"  Have  no  fear  for  the  child,"  said  Death, 
"for  I  will  care  for  him  while  you  are  gone." 

So,  between  the  insinuating  advice  of 
Ambition  and  the  fair  promises  of  Death, 
Griselda  was  persuaded,  and  the  messenger 
bore  back  to  the  king  word  that  Griselda 
would  sing  for  him  that  night. 

But  Ambition  and  Death  remained  as 
guests  in  Griselda's  household. 


OF  TALES 

The  child  grew  restless  as  the  day  ad 
vanced.  From  the  very  moment  that  Death 
had  entered  the  house  the  little  one  had 
seemed  very  changed,  but  Griselda  was  so 
busy  listening  to  the  flattering  speeches  of 
Ambition  that  she  did  not  notice  the  flush 
on  her  infant's  cheeks  and  the  feverish  rapid 
ity  of  his  breathing. 

But  Death  sat  grimly  in  a  corner  of  the 
room  and  never  took  his  eyes  from  the  crib 
where  the  little  one  lay. 

"You  shall  so  please  the  king  with  your 
beautiful  face  and  voice,"  said  Ambition, 
"that  he  will  confer  wealth  and  title  upon 
you.  You  will  be  the  most  famous  woman 
on  earth;  better  than  that,  your  fame  shall 
live  always  in  history  —  it  shall  be  eternal !  " 

And  Griselda  smiled,  for  the  picture  was 
most  pleasing. 

"The  child's  hands  are  hot,"  said  old 
Charlotte,  the  nurse,  "and  there  seem  to 
be  strange  tremors  in  his  little  body,  and  he 
groans  as  he  tosses  from  one  side  of  his 
cradle  to  the  other." 

Griselda  was  momentarily  alarmed,  but 
Ambition  only  laughed. 

85 


SECOND    BOOK 

"Nonsense,"  quoth  Ambition,  "  'tisanold 
woman's  fancy.  This  envious  old  witch 
would  have  you  disappoint  the  king  —  the 
king,  who  would  load  you  with  riches  and 
honors! " 

So  the  day  lengthened,  and  Griselda  lis 
tened  to  the  grateful  flatteries  of  Ambition. 
But  Death  sat  all  the  time  gazing  steadfastly 
on  the  little  one  in  the  cradle.  The  candles 
were  brought,  and  Griselda  arrayed  herself 
in  her  costliest  robes. 

"1  must  look  my  best,"  she  said,  ''for 
this  is  to  be  the  greatest  triumph  of  my  life." 

"You  are  very  beautiful;  you  will  capti 
vate  the  king,"  said  Ambition. 

"The  child  is  very  ill,"  croaked  old  Char 
lotte,  the  nurse;  "he  does  not  seem  to  be 
awake  nor  yet  asleep,  and  there  is  a  strange, 
hoarse  rattling  in  his  breathing." 

' '  For  shame !  "  cried  Ambition.  ' '  See  how 
the  glow  of  health  mantles  his  cheeks  and 
how  the  fire  of  health  burns  in  his  eyes." 

And  Griselda  believed  the  words  of  Am 
bition.  She  did  not  stoop  to  kiss  her  little 
one.  She  called  his  name  and  threw  him  a 
kiss,  and  hastened  to  her  carriage  in  the  street 
86 


OF  TALES 

below.  The  child  heard  the  mother's  voice, 
raised  his  head,  and  stretched  forth  his  hands 
to  Griselda,  but  she  was  gone  and  Ambition 
had  gone  with  her.  But  Death  remained 
with  Griselda's  little  one. 

The  theatre  was  more  brilliant  that  night 
than  ever  before.  It  had  been  noised  about 
that  Griselda  would  sing  for  the  king,  and 
lords  and  ladies  in  their  most  imposing  rai 
ment  filled  the  great  edifice  to  overflowing, 
while  in  the  royal  box  sat  the  king  himself, 
with  the  queen  and  the  princes  and  the  prin 
cesses. 

"  It  will  be  a  great  triumph,"  said  Ambi 
tion  to  Griselda,  and  Griselda  knew  that  she 
had  never  looked  half  so  beautiful  nor  felt 
half  so  ready  for  the  great  task  she  had  to 
perform.  There  was  mighty  cheering  when 
she  swept  before  the  vast  throng,  and  the 
king  smiled  and  bowed  when  he  saw  that 
Griselda  wore  about  her  neck  the  costly 
jewels  he  had  sent  her.  But  if  the  applause 
was  mighty  when  she  appeared,  what  was 
it  when  she  finished  her  marvellous  song  and 
bowed  herself  from  the  stage!  Thrice  was 
she  compelled  to  repeat  the  song,  and  a 
87 


SECOND   BOOK 

score  of  times  was  she  recalled  to  receive  the 
homage  of  the  delighted  throng.  Bouquets 
of  beautiful  flowers  were  heaped  about  her 
feet,  and  with  his  own  hand  from  his  box 
the  king  threw  to  her  a  jewelled  necklace  far 
costlier  than  his  previous  gift. 

As  Griselda  hurried  from  her  dressing- 
room  to  her  carriage  she  marvelled  that 
Ambition  had  suddenly  and  mysteriously 
quitted  her  presence.  In  his  place  stood 
the  figure  of  a  woman,  all  in  black,  and  with 
large,  sad  eyes  and  pale  face. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  Griselda. 

"  1  am  the  Spirit  of  Eternal  Sorrow,"  said 
the  woman. 

And  the  strange,  sad  woman  went  with 
Griselda  into  the  carriage  and  to  Griselda's 
home. 

Old  Charlotte,  the  nurse,  met  them  at  the 
door.  She  was  very  white  and  she  trem 
bled  as  if  with  fear. 

Then  Griselda  seemed  to  awaken  from  a 
dream. 

"  My  child  ?"  she  asked,  excitedly. 

"He  is  gone,"  replied  old  Charlotte,  the 
nurse. 

88 


OF  TALES 

Griselda  flew  to  the  chamber  where  she 
had  left  him.  There  stood  the  little  cradle 
where  he  had  lain,  but  the  cradle  was  empty. 

"  Who  has  taken  him  away  ?"  cried  Gri 
selda,  sinking  upon  her  knees  and  stretching 
her  hands  in  agony  to  heaven. 

"Death  took  him  away  but  an  hour  ago," 
said  old  Charlotte,  the  nurse. 

Then  Griselda  thought  of  his  fevered  face 
and  his  pitiful  little  moans  and  sighs;  of  the 
guileful  flatteries  of  Ambition  that  had  deaf 
ened  her  mother  ears  to  the  pleadings  of  her 
sick  babe;  of  the  brilliant  theatre  and  the 
applause  of  royalty  and  of  the  last  moments 
of  her  lonely,  dying  child. 

And  Griselda  arose  and  tore  the  jewels 
from  her  breast  and  threw  them  far  from  her 
and  cried:  "O  God,  it  is  my  punishment! 
I  am  alone." 

"Nay,  not  so,  O  mother,"  said  a  solemn 
voice;  "  I  am  with  thee  and  will  abide  with 
thee  forever." 

Griselda  turned  and  looked  upon  the  tall, 
gloomy  figure  that  approached  her  with 
these  words. 

It  was  the  Spirit  of  Eternal  Sorrow, 
89 


THE  TWO  WIVES 


IN  a  certain  city  there  were  two  wives 
named  Gerda  and  Hulda.  Although 
their  homes  adjoined,  these  wives  were  in 
very  different  social  stations,  for  Gerda  was 
the  wife  of  a  very  proud  and  very  rich  man, 
while  Hulda  was  the  wife  of  a  humble  ar 
tisan.  Gerda's  house  was  lofty  and  spa 
cious  and  was  adorned  with  most  costly  and 
most  beautiful  things,  but  Hulda's  house 
was  a  scantily  furnished  little  cottage.  The 
difference  in  their  social  stations  did  not, 
however,  prevent  Gerda  and  Hulda  from  be 
ing  very  friendly  in  a  proper  fashion,  and  the 
two  frequently  exchanged  visits  while  their 
husbands  were  away  from  home. 

One  day  Hulda  was  at  Gerda's  house,  and 
Gerda  said:  "  I  must  show  you  the  paint 
ing  we  have  just  received  from  Paris.  It  is 

93 


SECOND    BOOK 

the  most  beautiful  painting  in  the  world, 
it  cost  a  princely  sum  of  money. 

And  Gerda  took  Hulda  into  an  adjoining 
chamber  and  uncovered  the  picture,  and  for 
a  long  time  Hulda  stood  admiring  it  in  si 
lence.  It  was  indeed  a  masterpiece  of  art. 
Such  beauty  of  conception,  such  elegance  of 
design,  and  such  nicety  in  execution  had 
never  before  been  seen.  It  was  a  marvel  of 
figure  and  color  and  effect. 

"Is  it  not  the  most  beautiful  picture  in 
all  the  world  ?"  asked  Gerda. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  replied  Hulda,  "  but 
it  is  not  the  most  beautiful  picture  in  all  the 
world." 

Then  Gerda  took  Hulda  into  another 
chamber  and  showed  her  a  jewelled  music- 
box  which  the  most  cunning  artisans  in  all 
Switzerland  had  labored  for  years  to  produce. 

"You  shall  hear  it  make  music,"  said 
Gerda. 

And  Gerda  touched  the  spring,  and  the 
music-box  discoursed  a  harmony  such  as 
Hulda's  listening  ears  had  never  heard  be 
fore.  It  seemed  as  if  a  mountain  brook,  a 
summer  zephyr,  and  a  wild-wood  bird  were 


OF  TALES 

in  the  box  vying  with  each  other  in  sweet 
melodies. 

"Is  it  not  the  most  beautiful  music  in  all 
the  world?"  asked  Gerda. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful, "  replied  Hulda,  "but 
it  is  not  the  most  beautiful  music  in  all  the 
world." 

Then  Gerda  was  sorely  vexed. 

' '  You  said  that  of  the  picture, "  said  Gerda, 
"and  you  say  it  of  the  music.  Now  tell 
me,  Hulda,  where  is  there  to  be  found  a 
more  beautiful  picture,  and  where  more 
beautiful  music  ?" 

"  Come  with  me,  Gerda,"  said  Hulda. 

And  Hulda  led  Gerda  from  the  stately  man 
sion  into  her  own  humble  little  cottage. 

"  See  there  upon  the  wall  near  the  door  ?  " 
said  Hulda. 

"I  see  nothing  but  stains  and  marks  of 
dirt,"  said  Gerda.  "Where  is  the  picture 
of  which  you  spoke  ?" 

"They  are  the  prints  of  a  baby  hand," 
said  Hulda.  "You  are  a  woman  and  a 
wife,  and  would  you  not  exchange  all  the 
treasures  of  your  palace  for  the  finger-marks 
of  a  little  hand  upon  your  tinted  walls  ?" 


SECOND    BOOK   OF   TALES 

And  Gerda  made  no  reply. 

Then  Hulda  went  to  a  corner  and  drew 
forth  a  pair  of  quaint,  tiny  shoes  and  showed 
them  to  Gerda. 

"  These  are  a  baby's  shoes,"  said  Hulda, 
"  and  make  a  music  no  art  can  equal.  Other 
sounds  may  charm  the  ear  and  delight  the 
senses,  but  the  music  of  a  baby's  shoe  thrills 
the  heart  and  brings  the  soul  into  commun 
ion  with  the  angels." 

Then  Gerda  cried  "  T  is  true,  O  Hulda! 
't  is  true."  And  she  bowed  her  head  and 
wept.  For  she  was  childless. 


96 


* 
of 

¥ 


THE  WOOING  OF  MISS  WOPPIT 


A  that  time  the  camp  was  new.  Most 
of  what  was  called  the  valuable  prop 
erty  was  owned  by  an  English  syndicate, 
but  there  were  many  who  had  small  claims 
scattered  here  and  there  on  the  mountain 
side,  and  Three-fingered  Hoover  and  I  were 
rightly  reckoned  among  these  others.  The 
camp  was  new  and  rough  to  the  degree  of 
uncouthness,  yet,  upon  the  whole,  the  little 
population  was  well  disposed  and  orderly. 
But  along  in  the  spring  of  '81,  finding  that 
we  numbered  eight  hundred,  with  electric 
lights,  telephones,  a  bank,  a  meeting-house, 
a  race-track,  and  such-like  modern  improve 
ments,  we  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  became 
possessed  of  the  notion  to  have  a  city  gov 
ernment;  so  nothing  else  would  do  but  to 
proceed  at  once  and  solemnly  to  the  choice 


SECOND   BOOK 

of  a  mayor,  marshal,  clerk,  and  other  muni 
cipal  officers.  The  spirit  of  party  politics 
(as  it  is  known  and  as  it  controls  things 
elsewhere)  did  not  enter  into  the  short  and 
active  canvass;  there  were  numerous  can 
didates  for  each  office,  all  were  friends,  and 
the  most  popular  of  the  lot  were  to  win. 
The  campaign  was  fervent  but  good-na 
tured. 

I  shall  venture  to  say  that  Jim  Woppit 
would  never  have  been  elected  city  marshal 
but  for  the  potent  circumstance  that  several 
of  the  most  influential  gentlemen  in  the 
camp  were  in  love  with  Jim's  sister;  that 
was  Jim's  hold  on  these  influences,  and  that 
was  why  he  was  elected. 

Yet  Jim  was  what  you  'd  call  a  good  fel 
low —  not  that  he  was  fair  to  look  upon,  for 
he  was  not;  he  was  swarthy  and  heavy- 
featured  and  hulking;  but  he  was  a  fair- 
speaking  man,  and  he  was  always  ready  to 
help  out  the  boys  when  they  went  broke  or 
were  elsewise  in  trouble.  Yes,  take  him  all 
in  all,  Jim  Woppit  was  properly  fairly  pop 
ular,  although,  as  I  shall  always  maintain, 
he  would  never  have  been  elected  city  mar- 


OF  TALES 

shal  over  Buckskin  and  Red  E>R%$.,and;  Salty; 
Boardman  if  it  had  n't  been  (as  I  have  inti 
mated)  for  the  backing  he  got  from  Hoover, 
Jake  Dodsley,  and  Barber  Sam.  These  three 
men  last  named  were  influences  in  the 
camp,  enterprising  and  respected  citizens, 
with  plenty  of  sand  in  their  craws  and  plenty 
of  stuff  in  their  pockets;  they  loved  Miss 
Woppit,  and  they  were  in  honor  bound  to 
stand  by  the  interests  of  the  brother  of  that 
fascinating  young  woman. 

I  was  not  surprised  that  they  were  smitten ; 
she  might  have  caught  me,  too,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  little  woman  and  the  three  kids 
back  in  the  states.  As  handsome  and  as 
gentle  a  lady  was  Miss  Woppit  as  ever 
walked  a  white  pine  floor  —  so  very  differ 
ent  from  White  River  Ann,  and  Red  Drake's 
wife,  and  old  man  Edgar's  daughter,  for  they 
were  magpies  who  chattered  continually  and 
maliciously,  hating  Miss  Woppit  because  she 
wisely  chose  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them.  She  lived  with  her  brother  Jim  on  the 
side-hill,  just  off  the  main  road,  in  the  cabin 
that  Smooth  Ephe  Hicks  built  before  he  was 
thrown  off  his  broncho  into  the  gulch.  It 

101 


SECOND   BOOK 


a  -pretty  butJonesome  place,  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  camp,  adjoining 
the  claim  which  Jim  Woppit  worked  in  a 
lazy  sort  of  way— Jim  being  fairly  well 
fixed,  having  sold  off  a  coal  farm  in  Illinois 
just  before  he  came  west. 

In  this  little  cabin  abode  Miss  Woppit 
during  the  period  of  her  wooing,  a  period 
covering,  as  I  now  recall,  six  or,  may  be, 
eight  months.  She  was  so  pretty,  so  mod 
est,  so  diligent,  so  homekeeping,  and  so  shy, 
what  wonder  that  those  lonely,  heart-hungry 
men  should  fall  in  love  with  her  ?  In  all  the 
population  of  the  camp  the  number  of  women 
was  fewer  than  two  score,  and  of  this  num 
ber  half  were  married,  others  were  hopeless 
spinsters,  and  others  were  irretrievably  bad, 
only  excepting  Miss  Woppit,  the  prettiest, 
the  tidiest,  the  gentlest  of  all.  She  was 
good,  pure,  and  lovely  in  her  womanliness; 
I  shall  not  say  that  I  envied  — no,  I  respected 
Hoover  and  Dodsley  and  Barber  Sam  for  be 
ing  stuck  on  the  girl;  you  'd  have  respected 
'em,  too,  if  you  'd  seen  her  and — and  them. 
But  I  did  take  it  to  heart  because  Miss  Wop 
pit  seemed  disinclined  to  favor  any  suit  for 


OF  TALES 

her  fair  hand  —  particularly  because  she  was 
by  no  means  partial  to  Three-fingered 
Hoover,  as  square  a  man  as  ever  struck  pay 
dirt  —  dear  old  pardner,  your  honest  eyes 
will  never  read  these  lines,  between  which 
speaks  my  lasting  love  for  you! 

In  the  first  place,  Miss  Woppit  would  never 
let  the  boys  call  on  her  of  an  evening  unless 
her  brother  Jim  was  home;  she  had  strict 
notions  about  that  sort  of  thing  which  she 
would  n't  waive.  I  reckon  she  was  right 
according  to  the  way  society  looks  at  these 
things,  but  it  was  powerful  hard  on  Three- 
fingered  Hoover  and  Jake  Dodsley  and  Bar 
ber  Sam  to  be  handicapped  by  etiquette  when 
they  had  their  bosoms  chock  full  of  love  and 
were  dying  to  tell  the  girl  all  about  it. 

Jake  Dodsley  came  a  heap  nearer  than  the 
others  to  letting  Miss  Woppit  know  what 
his  exact  feelings  were.  He  was  a  poet  of 
no  mean  order.  What  he  wrote  was  print 
ed  regularly  in  Cad  Davis'  Leadville  paper 
under  the  head  of  "  Pearls  of  Pegasus,"  and 
all  us  Red  Hoss  Mountain  folks  allowed  that 
next  to  Willie  Pabor  of  Denver  our  own 
Jake  Dodsley  had  more  of  the  afflatus  in  him 
103 


SECOND    BOOK 

than  any  other  living  human  poet.  Hoover 
appreciated  Jake's  genius,  even  though  Jake 
was  his  rival.  It  was  Jake's  custom  to  write 
poems  at  Miss  Woppit — poems  breathing 
the  most  fervid  sentiment,  all  about  love  and 
bleeding  hearts  and  unrequited  affection. 
The  papers  containing  these  effusions  he 
would  gather  together  with  rare  diligence, 
and  would  send  them,  marked  duly  with  a 
blue  or  a  red  pencil,  to  Miss  Woppit. 

The  poem  which  Hoover  liked  best  was  one 
entitled  "True  Love,"  and  Hoover  commit 
ted  it  to  memory  —  yes,  he  went  even  fur 
ther;  he  hired  Professor  De  Blanc  (Casey's 
piano  player)  to  set  it  to  music,  and  this 
office  the  professor  discharged  nobly,  pro 
ducing  a  simple  but  solemn-like  melody 
which  Hoover  was  wont  to  sing  in  feeling 
wise,  poor,  dear,  misguided  fellow  that  he 
was !  Seems  to  me  1  can  hear  his  big,  honest, 
husky  voice  lifted  up  even  now  in  rendition 
of  that  expression  of  his  passion : 

Turrue  love  never  dies  — 

Like  a  river  flowin' 
In  its  course  it  gathers  force, 

Broader,  deeper  growin'; 

104 


OF  TALES 

Strength'nin'  in  the  storms  'at  come, 

Triumphin'  in  sorrer, 
Till  To-day  fades  away 

In  the  las'  To-morrer. 
Wot  though  Time  flies  ? 
Turrue  love  never  dies! 

Moreover,  Three-fingered  Hoover  dis 
coursed  deftly  upon  the  fiddle;  at  obligatos 
and  things  he  was  not  much,  but  at  real 
music  he  could  not  be  beat.  Called  his  fid 
dle  "  Mother,"  because  his  own  mother  was 
dead,  and  being  he  loved  her  and  had  no 
other  way  of  showing  it,  why,  he  named  his 
fiddle  after  her.  Three-fingered  Hoover  was 
full  of  just  such  queer  conceits. 

Barber  Sam  was  another  music  genius; 
his  skill  as  a  performer  upon  the  guitar  was 
one  of  the  marvels  of  the  camp.  Nor  had 
he  an  indifferent  voice  — Prof.  De  Blanc  al 
lowed  that  if  Barber  Sam's  voice  had  been 
cultured  at  the  proper  time  —  by  which  1 
suppose  he  meant  in  youth  —  Barber  Sam 
would  undoubtedly  have  become  "one  of 
the  brightest  constellations  in  the  operatic 
firmament."  Moreover,  Barber  Sam  had  a 
winsome  presence;  a  dapper  body  was  he, 
105 


SECOND   BOOK 

with  a  clear  olive  skin,  soulful  eyes,  a  noble 
mustache,  and  a  splendid  suit  of  black  curly 
hair.  His  powers  of  conversation  were  re 
markable —  that  fact,  coupled  with  his  play 
ing  the  guitar  and  wearing  plaid  clothes, gave 
him  the  name  of  Barber  Sam,  for  he  was  not 
really  a  barber;  was  only  just  like  one. 

In  the  face  of  all  their  wooing,  Miss  Wop- 
pit  hardened  her  heart  against  these  three 
gentlemen,  any  one  of  whom  the  highest 
lady  in  the  land  might  have  been  proud  to 
catch.  The  girl  was  not  inclined  to  affairs 
of  the  heart;  she  cared  for  no  man  but  her 
brother  Jim.  What  seemed  to  suit  her  best 
was  to  tend  to  things  about  the  cabin  —  it 
was  called  The  Bower,  the  poet  Jake  Dodsley 
having  given  it  that  name  —  to  till  the  little 
garden  where  the  hollyhocks  grew,  and  to 
stroll  away  by  herself  on  the  hillside  or  down 
through  Magpie  Glen,  beside  the  gulch.  A 
queer,  moodful  creature  she  was;  unlike 
other  girls,  so  far  as  we  were  able  to  judge. 
She  just  doted  on  Jim,  and  Jim  only  — 
how  she  loved  that  brother  you  shall  know 
presently. 

It  was  lucky  that  we   organized   a  city 
1 06 


OF  TALES 

government  when  we  did.  All  communi 
ties  have  streaks  of  bad  luck,  and  it  was  just 
after  we  had  elected  a  mayor,  a  marshal,  and 
a  full  quota  of  officers  that  Red  Hoss  Moun 
tain  had  a  spell  of  experiences  that  seemed 
likely  at  one  time  to  break  up  the  camp. 
There  's  no  telling  where  it  all  would  have 
ended  if  we  had  n't  happened  to  have  a  corps 
of  vigilant  and  brave  men  in  office,  deter 
mined  to  maintain  law  and  order  at  all  per 
sonal  hazards.  With  a  camp,  same  as  'tis 
with  dogs,  it  is  mighty  unhealthy  to  get  a 
bad  name. 

The  tidal  wave  of  crime  —  if  I  may  so  term 
it_  struck  us  three  days  after  the  election.  I 
remember  distinctly  that  all  our  crowd  was 
in  at  Casey's,  soon  after  nightfall,  indulging 
in  harmless  pleasantries,  such  as  eating, 
drinking,  and  stud  poker.  Casey  was  telling 
how  he  had  turned  several  cute  tricks  on 
election  day,  and  his  recital  recalled  to  others 
certain  exciting  experiences  they  had  had  in 
the  states;  so,  in  an  atmosphere  of  tobacco, 
beer,  onions,  wine,  and  braggadocio,  and 
with  the  further  delectable  stimulus  of  seven- 
year-old  McBrayer,  the  evening  opened  up 
107 


SECOND   BOOK 

congenially  and  gave  great  promise.  The 
boys  were  convivial,  if  not  boisterous.  But 
Jim  Woppit,  wearing  the  big  silver  star  of 
his  exalted  office  on  his  coat-front,  was 
present  in  the  interests  of  peace  and  order, 
and  the  severest  respect  was  shown  to  the 
newly  elected  representative  of  municipal 
dignity  and  authority. 

All  of  a  sudden,  sharp,  exacting,  and  stac 
cato-like,  the  telephone  sounded;  seemed 
like  it  said,  ''Quick  —  trouble  —  help!"  By 
the  merest  chance — a  lucky  chance — Jim 
Woppit  happened  to  be  close  by,  and  he 
reached  for  the  telephone  and  answered  the 
summons. 

"Yes."  "Where?"  "You  bet  — right 
away! " 

That  was  what  Jim  said;  of  course,  we 
heard  only  one  side  of  the  talk.  But  we 
knew  that  something  —  something  remark 
able  had  happened.  Jim  was  visibly  excited ; 
he  let  go  the  telephone,  and,  turning  around, 

full  over  against  us,  he  said,  "By , 

boys!  the  stage  hez  been  robbed !  " 

A  robbery!  The  first  in  the  Red  Hoss 
Mountain  country!  Every  man  leapt  to  his 
1 08 


OF  TALES 

feet  and  broke  for  the  door,  his  right  hand 
thrust  instinctively  back  toward  his  hip 
pocket.  There  was  blood  in  every  eye. 

Hank  Eaves'  broncho  was  tied  in  front  of 
Casey's. 

"  Tell  me  whereto  go/'  says  Hank,  "and 
I  '11  git  thar  in  a  minnit.  I  'm  fixed." 

"No,    Hank,"  says  Jim   Woppit,   com 
manding  like,  ffl  'II  go.     I  'm  city  marshal, 
an'  it  's  my  place  to  go —  I  'm  the  repersen- 
tive  of  law  an'  order  an'  I  '11  enforce  'em  - 
damn  me  ef  1  don't!  " 

"That  's  bizness  —  Jim's  head  's  level!" 
cried  Barber  Sam. 

"  Let  Jim  have  the  broncho, "the  rest  of 
us  counselled,  and  Hank  had  to  give  in, 
though  he  hated  to,  for  he  was  spoiling  for 
trouble  —  cussedest  fellow  for  fighting  you 
ever  saw!  Jim  threw  himself  astride  the 
spunky  little  broncho  and  was  off  like  a 
flash. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  he  called  back  to  us; 
"  come  on,  ez  fast  ez  you  kin  to  the  glen !  " 

Of  course  we  could  n't  anywhere  near 
keep  up  with   him;  he  was   soon   out   of 
sight.    But  Magpie  Glen  was  only  a  bit  away 
109 


SECOND    BOOK 

— just  a  trifle  up  along  the  main  road  beyond 
the  Woppit  cabin.  Encouraged  by  the  ex 
citement  of  the  moment  and  by  the  whoop 
ing  of  Jake  Dodsley,  who  opined  (for  being  a 
poet  he  always  opined)  that  some  evil  might 
have  befallen  his  cherished  Miss  Woppit  - 
incited  by  these  influences  we  made  all  haste. 
But  Miss  Woppit  was  presumably  safe,  for 
as  we  hustled  by  The  Bower  we  saw  the 
front  room  lighted  up  and  the  shadow  of 
Miss  Woppit's  slender  figure  flitting  to  and 
fro  behind  the  white  curtain.  She  was 
frightened  almost  to  death,  poor  girl! 

It  appeared  from  the  story  of  Steve  Bar 
clay,  the  stage-driver,  that  along  about  eight 
o'clock  the  stage  reached  the  glen  —  a  dark 
ish,  dismal  spot,  and  the  horses,  tired  and 
sweaty,  toiled  almost  painfully  up  the  short 
stretch  of  rising  ground.  There  were  seven 
people  in  the  stage:  Mr.  Mills,  superintend 
ent  of  the  Royal  Victoria  mine;  a  travelling 
man  (or  drummer)  from  Chicago,  one  Pryor, 
an  invalid  tenderfoot,  and  four  miners  return 
ing  from  a  round-up  at  Denver.  Steve 
Barclay  was  the  only  person  outside.  As 
the  stage  reached  the  summit  of  the  little 
no 


OF  TALES 

hill  the  figure  of  a  man  stole  suddenly  from 
the  thicket  by  the  roadside,  stood  directly 
in  front  of  the  leading  horses,  and  com 
manded  a  halt.  The  movement  was  so 
sudden  as  to  terrify  the  horses,  and  the  con 
sequence  was  that,  in  shying,  the  brutes 
came  near  tipping  the  coach  completely  over. 
Barclay  was  powerless  to  act,  for  the  assail 
ant  covered  him  with  two  murderous  re 
volvers  and  bade  him  throw  up  his  hands. 

Then  the  men  in  the  coach  were  ordered 
out  and  compelled  to  disgorge  their  valu 
ables,  the  robber  seeming  to  identify  and  to 
pay  particular  attention  to  Mr.  Mills,  the 
superintendent,  who  had  brought  with  him 
from  Denver  a  large  sum  of  money.  When 
the  miners  made  a  slight  show  of  resistance 
the  assailant  called  to  his  comrades  in  the 
bush  to  fire  upon  the  first  man  who  showed 
fight;  this  threat  induced  a  wise  resignation 
to  the  inevitable.  Having  possessed  him 
self  in  an  incredibly  short  time  of  his  booty, 
the  highwayman  backed  into  the  thicket 
and  quickly  made  off.  The  procedure  from 
first  to  last  occupied  hardly  more  than  five 
minutes. 


SECOND   BOOK 

The  victims  of  this  outrage  agreed  that 
the  narrative  as  I  have  given  it  was  in  the 
main  correct.  Barclay  testified  that  he  saw 
the  barrels  of  rifles  gleaming  from  the  thicket 
when  the  outlaw  called  to  his  confederates. 
On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Mills,  who  was  the 
principal  loser  by  the  affair,  insisted  that  the 
outlaw  did  his  work  alone,  and  that  his  com 
mand  to  his  alleged  accomplices  was  merely 
a  bluff.  There  was,  too,  a  difference  in  the 
description  given  of  the  highwayman,  some 
of  the  party  describing  him  as  a  short,  thick 
set  man,  others  asserting  that  he  was  tall 
and  slender.  Of  his  face  no  sight  had  been 
obtained,  for  he  wore  a  half-mask  and  a 
large  slouch  hat  pulled  well  down  over  his 
ears.  But  whatever  dispute  there  may  have 
been  as  to  details,  one  thing  was  sure  — 
robbery  had  been  done,  and  the  robber  had 
fled  with  four  gold  watches  and  cash  to 
the  amount  of,  say,  two  thousand  five  hun 
dred  dollars. 

Recovering  betimes  from  their  alarm  and 
bethinking  themselves  of  pursuit  of  the  out 
laws,  the  helpless  victims  proceeded  to  push 
into  camp  to  arouse  the  miners.  It  was 

I  12 


OF  TALES 

then  that  Barclay  discovered  that  the  tire  of 
one  of  the  front  wheels  had  come  off  in  the 
jolt  and  wrench  caused  by  the  frightened 
horses.  As  no  time  was  to  be  lost,  Barclay 
suggested  that  somebody  run  down  the  road 
to  Woppit's  cabin  and  telephone  to  camp. 
Mr.  Mills  and  the  Chicago  drummer  under 
took  this  errand.  After  considerable  parley 
—  for  Miss  Woppit  wisely  insisted  upon  be 
ing  convinced  of  her  visitors'  honorable  in 
tentions —  these  two  men  were  admitted, 
and  so  the  alarm  was  transmitted  to  Casey's, 
Miss  Woppit  meanwhile  exhibiting  violent 
alarm  lest  her  brother  Jim  should  come  to 
harm  in  pursuing  the  fugitives. 

As  for  Jim  Woppit,  he  never  once  lost  his 
head.  When  the  rest  of  us  came  up  to  the 
scene  of  the  robbery  he  had  formed  a  plan 
of  pursuit.  It  was  safe,  he  said,  to  take  for 
granted  that  there  was  a  gang  of  the  out 
laws.  They  would  undoubtedly  strike  for 
Eagle  Pass,  since  there  was  no  possible  way 
of  escape  in  the  opposite  direction,  the  gulch, 
deep  and  wide,  following  the  main  road 
close  into  camp.  Ten  of  us  should  go  with 
him  —  ten  of  the  huskiest  miners  mounted 

•13 


SECOND   BOOK 

upon  the  stanchest  bronchoes  the  camp 
could  supply.  "  We  shall  come  up  with 
the  hellions  before  mornin',"  said  he,  and 
then  he  gritted  his  teeth  significantly. 

A  brave  man  and  a  cool  man,  you  '11  allow ; 
good-hearted,  too,  for  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
excitement  he  thought  of  his  sister,  and  he 
said,  almost  tenderly,  to  Three-fingered 
Hoover:  fi  I  can  trust  you,  pardner,  I  know. 
Go  up  to  the  cabin  and  tell  her  it 's  all  right — 
that  I  '11  be  back  to-morrow  and  that  she 
must  n't  be  skeered.  And  if  she  is  skeered, 
why,  you  kind  o'  hang  round  there  to-night 
and  act  like  you  knew  everything  was  all 
O.  K." 

"But  may  be  Hoover  '11  be  lonesome," 
suggested  Barber  Sam.  He  was  a  sly  dog. 

"  Then  you  go  'long  too,"  said  Jim  Wop- 
pit.  "Tell  her  I  said  so." 

Three-fingered  Hoover  would  rather  —  a 
good  deal  rather — have  gone  alone.  Yet, 
with  all  that  pardonable  selfishness,  he  rec 
ognized  a  certain  impropriety  in  calling  alone 
at  night  upon  an  unprotected  female.  So 
Hoover  accepted,  though  not  gayly,  of  Bar 
ber  Sam's  escort,  and  in  a  happy  moment  it 
114 


OF   TALES 

occurred  to  the  twain  that  it  might  be  a  pious 
idea  to  take  their  music  instruments  with 
them.  Hardly,  therefore,  had  Jim  Woppit 
and  his  posse  flourished  out  of  camp  when 
Three-fingered  Hoover  and  Barber  Sam, 
carrying  Mother  and  the  famous  guitar,  re 
turned  along  the  main  road  toward  The 
Bower. 

When  the  cabin  came  in  view  —  the  cabin 
on  the  side  hill  with  hollyhocks  standing 
guard  round  it  —  one  of  those  subtle  fancies 
in  which  Barber  Sam's  active  brain  abound 
ed  possessed  Barber  Sam.  It  was  to  con 
vey  to  Miss  Woppit's  ear  good  tidings  upon 
the  wings  of  music.  "  Suppose  we  play 
'All's  Well'?"  suggested  Barber  Sam. 
"That'll  let  her  know  that  everything's 
O.  K." 

''Just  the  thing!"  answered  Three-fin 
gered  Hoover,  and  then  he  added,  and  he 
meant  it:  "  Durned  if  you  ain't  jest  about  as 
slick  as  they  make  'em,  pardner!  " 

The  combined  efforts  of  the  guitar  and 
Mother  failed,  however,  to  produce  any  man 
ifestation  whatever,  so  far  as  Miss  Woppit 
was  concerned.  The  light  in  the  front  room 

"5 


SECOND   BOOK 

of  the  cabin  glowed  steadily,  but  no  shadow 
of  the  girl's  slender  form  was  to  be  seen  upon 
the  white  muslin  curtain.  So  the  two  men 
went  up  the  gravelly  walk  and  knocked  firm 
ly  but  respectfully  at  the  door. 

They  had  surmised  that  Miss  Woppit 
might  be  asleep,  but,  oh,  no,  not  she.  She 
was  not  the  kind  of  sister  to  be  sleeping 
when  her  brother  was  in  possible  danger. 
The  answer  to  the  firm  but  respectful  knock 
ing  was  immediate. 

''Who's  there  and  what  do  you  want?" 
asked  Miss  Woppit  in  tremulous  tones,  with 
her  face  close  to  the  latch.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  poor  thing's  alarm. 

"It's  only  us  gents,"  answered  Three-fin 
gered  Hoover,  "me  an'  Barber  Sam;  did  n't 
you  hear  us  serenadin'  you  a  minnit  ago  ? 
We  've  come  to  tell  you  that  everything  's 
all  right — Jim  told  us  to  come  —  he  told  us 
to  tell  you  not  to  be  skeered,  and  if  you  wuz 
skeered  how  we  gents  should  kind  of  hang 
round  here  to-night;  be  you  skeered,  Miss 
Woppit?  Your  voice  sounds  sort  o'  like 
you  wuz." 

Having  now  unbolted  and  unlatched  and 

116 


OF   TALES 

opened  the  door,  Miss  Woppit  confessed  that 
she  was  indeed  alarmed;  the  pallor  of  her 
face  confirmed  that  confession.  Where  was 
Jim  ?  Had  they  caught  the  robbers  ?  Was 
there  actually  no  possibility  of  Jim's  getting 
shot  or  stabbed  or  hurt  ?  These  and  similar 
questions  did  the  girl  put  to  the  two  men, 
who,  true  to  their  trust,  assured  the  timor 
ous  creature  in  well-assumed  tones  of  con 
fidence  that  her  brother  could  n't  get  hurt, 
no  matter  how  hard  he  might  try. 

To  make  short  of  a  long  tale,  I  will  say 
that  the  result  of  the  long  parley,  in  which 
Miss  Woppit  exhibited  a  most  charming 
maidenly  embarrassment,  was  that  Three- 
fingered  Hoover  and  Barber  Sam  were  ad 
mitted  to  the  cabin  for  the  night.  It  was 
understood  — nay,  it  was  explicitly  set  forth, 
that  they  should  have  possession  of  the  front 
room  wherein  they  now  stood,  while  Miss 
Woppit  was  to  retire  to  her  apartment  be 
yond,  which,  according  to  popular  fame  and 
in  very  truth,  served  both  as  a  kitchen  and 
Miss  Woppit's  bedroom,  there  being  only 
two  rooms  in  the  cabin. 

This  front  room  had  in  it  a  round  table,  a 

"7 


n8 


OF   TALES 

Miss  Woppit,  though  hardly  reassured  by 
the  hearty  protestations  of  Hoover  and  Bar 
ber  Sam  as  to  her  brother's  security,  hoped 
that  all  would  be  well.  With  evident  diffi 
dence  she  bade  her  guests  make  themselves  at 
home;  there  was  plenty  of  wood  in  the  box 
behind  the  stove  and  plenty  of  oil  in  the 
tell-tale  lamp;  she  fetched  a  big  platter  of 
crackers,  a  mammoth  cut  of  cheese,  a  can 
of  cove  oysters,  and  a  noble  supply  of  condi 
ments.  Did  the  gents  reckon  they  would  be 
comfortable  ?  The  gents  smiled  and  bowed 
obsequiously,  neither,  however,  indulging 
in  conversation  to  any  marked  degree,  for, 
as  was  quite  natural,  each  felt  in  the  pres 
ence  of  his  rival  a  certain  embarrassment 
which  we  can  fancy  Miss  Woppit  respected 
if  she  did  not  enjoy  it. 

Finally  Miss  Woppit  retired  to  her  own 
delectable  bower  in  the  kitchen  with  the 
parting  remark  that  she  would  sleep  in  a 
sense  of  perfect  security;  this  declaration 
flattered  her  protectors,  albeit  she  had  no 
sooner  closed  the  door  than  she  piled  the 
kitchen  woodbox  and  her  own  small  trunk 
against  it — a  proceeding  that  touched 
119 


SECOND   BOOK 

Three-fingered  Hoover  deeply  and  evoked 
from  him  a  tender  expression  as  to  the  nat 
ural  timidity  of  womankind,  which  senti 
ment  the  crafty  Barber  Sam  instantly  in 
dorsed  in  a  tone  loud  enough  for  the  lady  to 
hear. 

It  is  presumed  that  Miss  Woppit  slept  that 
night.  Following  the  moving  of  that 
woodbox  and  that  small  trunk  there  was  no 
sound  of  betrayal  if  Miss  Woppit  did  not 
sleep.  Once  the  men  in  the  front  room  were 
startled  by  the  woman's  voice  crying  out, 
"Jim  —  oh,  Jim!"  in  tones  of  such  terror  as 
to  leave  no  doubt  that  Miss  Woppit  slept 
and  dreamed  frightful  dreams. 

The  men  themselves  were  wakeful 
enough ;  they  were  there  to  protect  a  lady, 
and  they  were  in  no  particular  derelict  to 
that  trust.  Sometimes  they  talked  together 
in  the  hushed  voices  that  beseem  a  sick- 
chamber;  anon  they  took  up  their  music 
apparata  and  thrummed  and  sawed  there 
from  such  harmonies  as  would  seem  likely 
to  lull  to  sweeter  repose  the  object  of  their 
affection  in  the  adjoining  chamber  beyond 
the  woodbox  and  the  small  trunk;  the  cir- 

120 


OF  TALES 

cumstance  of  the  robbery  they  discussed  in 
discreet  tones,  both  agreeing  that  the  high 
waymen  were  as  good  as  dead  by  this  time. 
We  can  fancy  that  the  twain  were  distinctly 
annoyed  upon  discovering  in  one  corner  of 
the  room,  during  their  vigils,  a  number  of 
Leadville  and  Denver  newspapers  containing 
sonnets,  poems,  odes,  triolets,  and  such  like, 
conspicuously  marked  with  blue  or  red  pen 
cil  tracings  and  all  aimed,  in  a  poetic  sense, 
at  Miss  Woppit's  virgin  heart.  This  was 
the  subtle  work  of  the  gifted  Jake  Dodsley! 
This  was  his  ingenious  way  of  storming  the 
citadel  of  the  coy  maiden's  affections. 

The  discovery  led  Barber  Sam  to  venti 
late  his  opinion  of  the  crafty  Dodsley,  an 
opinion  designedly  pitched  in  a  high  and 
stentorian  key  and  expressive  of  everything 
but  compliment.  On  the  contrary,  Three- 
fingered  Hoover  —  a  guileless  man,  if  ever 
there  was  one  — stood  bravely  up  for  Jake, 
imputing  this  artifice  of  his  to  a  passion 
which  knows  no  ethics  so  for  as  competition 
is  concerned.  It  was  true,  as  Hoover  ad 
mitted,  that  poets  seldom  make  good  hus 
bands,  but,  being  an  exceptionally  good  poet, 

121 


SECOND   BOOK 

Jake  might  prove  also  an  exception  in  mat 
rimony,  providing  be  found  a  wife  at  his 
time  of  life.  But  as  to  the  genius  of  the  man 
there  could  be  no  question;  not  even  the 
poet  Pabor  had  in  all  his  glory  done  a  poem 
so  fine  as  that  favorite  poem  of  Hoover's, 
which,  direct  from  the  burning  types  of  the 
"  Leadville  Herald,"  Hoover  had  committed 
to  the  tablets  of  his  memory  and  was  wont 
to  repeat  or  sing  on  all  occasions  to  the 
aggrandizement  of  Jake  Dodsley's  fame. 
Gradually  the  trend  of  the  discussion  led  to 
the  suggestion  that  Hoover  sing  this  favor 
ite  poem,  and  this  he  did  in  a  soothing,  soul 
ful  voice,  Barber  Sam  accompanying  him 
upon  that  wondrous  guitar.  What  a  pic 
ture  that  must  have  been!  Even  upon  the 
mountain-sides  of  that  far-off  West  human 
hearts  respond  tenderly  to  the  touch  of  love. 

—  Wot  though  time  flies  ? 
Turrue  love  never  dies ! 

That  honest  voice  —  oh,  could  I  hear  it 
now!  That  honest  face  —  oh,  could  I  see  it 
again !  And,  oh,  that  once  more  1  could  feel 


OF   TALES 

the  clasp  of  that  brave  hand  and  the  cordial 
grace  of  that  dear,  noble  presence! 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year;  the  nights 
were  long,  yet  this  night  sped  quickly.  Long 
before  daybreak  significant  sounds  in  the 
back  room  betokened  that  Miss  Woppit  was 
up  and  moving  around.  Through  the  closed 
door  and  from  behind  the  improvised  ram 
part  of  wood-box  and  small  trunk  the  young 
lady  informed  her  chivalric  protectors  that 
they  might  go  home,  prefacing  this  permis 
sion,  however,  with  a  solicitous  inquiry  as  to 
whether  anything  had  been  heard  from 
Brother  Jim  and  his  posse. 

Jim  Woppit  and  his  men  must  have  had 
a  hard  ride  of  it.  They  did  not  show  up  in 
camp  until  eleven  o'clock  that  day,  and  a 
tougher-looking  outfit  you  never  saw.  They 
had  scoured  the  surrounding  country  with 
the  utmost  diligence,  yet  no  trace  whatever 
had  they  discovered  of  the  outlaws;  the 
wretches  had  disappeared  so  quickly,  so 
mysteriously,  that  it  seemed  hard  to  believe 
that  they  had  indeed  existed.  The  crime, 
so  boldly  and  so  successfully  done,  was  of 
course  the  one  theme  of  talk,  of  theory,  and 
123 


SECOND    BOOK 

of  speculation  in  all  that  region  for  the  con 
ventional  period  of  nine  days.  And  then  it 
appeared  to  be  forgotten,  or,  at  least,  men 
seldom  spoke  of  it,  and  presently  it  came  to 
be  accepted  as  the  popular  belief  that  the 
robbery  had  been  committed  by  a  gang  of 
desperate  tramps,  this  theory  being  con 
firmed  by  a  certain  exploit  subsequently  in 
the  San  Juan  country,  an  exploit  wherein 
three  desperate  tramps  assaulted  the  tri 
weekly  road-hack,  and,  making  off  with  their 
booty,  were  ultimately  taken  and  strung  up 
to  a  convenient  tree. 

Still,  the  reward  of  one  thousand  dollars 
offered  by  the  city  government  of  Red  Hoss 
Mountain  for  information  leading  to  the  ar 
rest  of  the  glen  robbers  was  not  withdrawn, 
and  there  were  those  in  the  camp  who  quietly 
persevered  in  the  belief  that  the  outrage  had 
been  done  by  parties  as  yet  undiscovered,  if 
not  unsuspected.  Mr.  Mills,  the  superinten 
dent  of  the  Royal  Victoria,  had  many  a  secret 
conference  with  Jim  Woppit,  and  it  finally 
leaked  out  that  the  cold,  discriminating,  and 
vigilant  eye  of  eternal  justice  was  riveted 
upon  Steve  Barclay,  the  stage-driver.  Few 
124 


OF  TALES 

of  us  suspected  Steve;  he  was  a  good-na 
tured,  inoffensive  fellow;  it  seemed  the  idlest 
folly  to  surmise  that  he  could  have  been  in 
collusion  with  the  highwaymen.  But  Mr. 
Mills  had  his  own  ideas  on  the  subject;  he 
was  a  man  of  positive  convictions,  and,  hav 
ing  pretty  nearly  always  demonstrated  that 
he  was  in  the  right,  it  boded  ill  for  Steve 
Barclay  when  Mr.  Mills  made  up  his  mind 
that  Steve  must  have  been  concerned  in 
one  way  or  another  in  that  Magpie  Glen 

crime. 

The  wooing  of  Miss  Woppit  pursued  the 
even  tenor  of  its  curious  triple  way.  Wars 
and  rumors  of  wars  served  merely  to  imbue 
it  with  certain  heroic  fervor.  Jake  Dodsley's 
contributions  to  the  "Leadville  Herald"  and 
to  Henry  Feld wisch's  Denver ' '  Inter-Ocean, " 
though  still  aimed  at  the  virgin  mistress  of 
The  Bower,  were  pitched  in  a  more  exalted 
key  and  breathed  a  spirit  that  defied  all  hu 
man  dangers.  What  though  death  confront 
ed  the  poet  and  the  brutal  malice  of  noc 
turnal  marauders  threatened  the  object  of  his 
adoration,  what,  short  of  superhuman  inter 
vention,  should  prevent  the  poet  from  baf- 
125 


SECOND    BOOK 

fling  all  hostile  environments  and  placing  the 
queen  of  his  heart  securely  upon  his  throne 
beside  him,  etc.,  etc.  ?  We  all  know  how 
the  poets  go  it  when  they  once  get  started. 
The  Magpie  Glen  affair  gave  Jake  Dodsley  a 
new  impulse,  and  marked  copies  of  his 
wonderful  effusions  found  their  way  to  the 
Woppit  cabin  in  amazing  plenty  and  with 
exceeding  frequency.  In  a  moment  of  vin 
dictive  bitterness  was  Barber  Sam  heard  to 
intimate  that  the  robbery  was  particularly  to 
be  regretted  for  having  served  to  open  the 
sluices  of  Jake  Dodsley's  poetic  soul. 

'T  was  the  purest  comedy,  this  wooing 
was;  through  it  all  the  finger  of  fate  traced  a 
deep  line  of  pathos.  The  poetic  Dodsley, 
with  his  inexhaustible  fund  of  rhyme,  of  op 
timism  and  of  subtlety ;  Barber  Sam,  with  his 
envy,  his  jealousy,  and  his  garrulity;  Three- 
fingered  Hoover  with  his  manly  yearning, 
timorousness,  tenderness,  and  awkwardness 
—  these  three  in  a  seemingly  vain  quest  of 
love  reciprocated;  the  girl,  fair,  lonely,  duti 
ful —  filled  with  devotion  to  her  brother  and 
striving,  amid  it  all,  to  preserve  a  proper 
womanly  neutrality  toward  these  other  men ; 
126 


OF  TALES 

there  was  in  this  little  comedy  among  those 
distant  hills  so  much  of  real  pathos. 

As  for  Jim  Woppit,  he  showed  not  the 
slightest  partiality  toward  any  one  of  the 
three  suitors;  with  all  he  was  upon  terms  of 
equal  friendship.  It  seemed  as  if  Jim  had 
made  up  his  mind  in  the  beginning  to  let 
the  best  one  win ;  it  was  a  free,  fair,  square 
race,  so  far  as  Jim  was  concerned,  and  that 
was  why  Jim  always  had  stanch  backers  in 
Jake  Dodsley,  Barber  Sam,  and  Three-fingered 
Hoover. 

My  sympathies  were  all  with  Hoover;  he 
and  I  were  pardners.  He  loved  the  girl  in 
his  own  beautiful,  awkward  way.  He  sel 
dom  spoke  of  her  to  me,  for  he  was  not  the 
man  to  unfold  what  his  heart  treasured.  He 
was  not  an  envious  man,  yet  sometimes  he 
v/ould  tell  how  he  regretted  that  early  edu 
cation  had  not  fallen  to  his  lot,  for  in  that 
case  he,  too,  might  have  been  a  poet.  Mo 
ther —  the  old  red  fiddle  —  was  his  solace. 
Coming  home  to  our  cabin  late  of  nights  1  'd 
hear  him  within  scraping  away  at  that  tune 
De  Blanc  had  written  for  him,  and  he  be 
lieved  what  Mother  sung  to  him  in  her 
127 


SECOND   BOOK 

squeaky  voice  of  the  deathlessness  of  true 
love.  And  many  a  time  —  I  can  tell  it  now  — 
many  a  time  in  the  dead  of  night  I  have 
known  him  to  steal  out  of  the  cabin  with 
Mother  and  go  up  the  main  road  to  the  gate 
way  of  The  Bower,  where,  in  moonlight  or 
in  darkness  (it  mattered  not  to  him),  he 
would  repeat  over  and  over  again  that  melan 
choly  tune,  hoping  thereby  to  touch  the  sen 
sibilities  of  the  lady  of  his  heart. 

In  the  early  part  of  February  there  was  a 
second  robbery.  This  time  the  stage  was 
overhauled  at  Lone  Pine,  a  ranch  five  miles 
beyond  the  camp.  The  details  of  this  affair 
were  similar  to  those  of  the  previous  busi 
ness  in  the  glen.  A  masked  man  sprang 
from  the  roadside,  presented  two  revolvers 
at  Steve  Barclay's  head,  and  called  upon  all 
within  the  stage  to  come  out,  holding  up 
their  hands.  The  outrage  was  successfully 
carried  out,  but  the  booty  was  inconsider 
able,  somewhat  less  than  eight  hundred  dol 
lars  falling  into  the  highwayman's  hands. 
The  robber  and  his  pals  fled  as  before;  the 
time  that  elapsed  before  word  could  be  got  to 
camp  facilitated  the  escape  of  the  outlaws. 


OF   TALES 

A  two  days'  scouring  of  the  surrounding 
country  revealed  absolutely  no  sign  or  trace 
of  the  fugitives.  But  it  was  pretty  evident 
now  that  the  two  crimes  had  been  com 
mitted  by  a  gang  intimately  acquainted 
with,  if  not  actually  living  in,  the  locality. 
Confirmation  of  this  was  had  when  five 
weeks  later  the  stage  was  again  stopped  and 
robbed  at  Lone  Pine  under  conditions  ex 
actly  corresponding  with  the  second  robbery. 
The  mystery  baffled  the  wits  of  all.  Intense 
excitement  prevailed ;  a  reward  of  five  thou 
sand  dollars  was  advertised  for  the  appre 
hension  of  the  outlaws;  the  camp  fairly 
seethed  with  rage,  and  the  mining  country 
for  miles  around  was  stirred  by  a  determi 
nation  to  hunt  out  and  kill  the  miscreants. 
Detectives  came  from  Denver  and  snooped 
around.  Everybody  bought  extra  guns  and 
laid  in  a  further  supply  of  ammunition.  Yet 
the  stage  robbers  —  bless  you !  nobody  could 
find  hide  or  hair  of 'em. 

Miss  Woppit  stood  her  share  of  the  excite 
ment  and  alarm  as  long  as  she  could,  and 
then  she  spoke  her  mind  to  Jim.  He  told 
us  about  it.  Miss  Woppit  owed  a  certain 
129 


SECOND   BOOK 

duty  to  Jim,  she  said;  was  it  not  enough  for 
her  to  be  worried  almost  to  death  with  fears 
for  his  safety  as  marshal  of  the  camp  ?  Was 
it  fair  that  in  addition  to  this  haunting  terror 
she  should  be  constantly  harassed  by  a  con 
sciousness  of  her  own  personal  danger  ?  She 
was  a  woman  and  alone  in  a  cabin  some 
distance  from  any  other  habitation ;  one  crime 
had  been  committed  within  a  step  of  that 
isolated  cabin ;  what  further  crime  might  not 
be  attempted  by  the  miscreants? 

"The  girl  is  skeered,"  said  Jim  Woppit, 
"and  I  don't  know  that  I  wonder  at  it. 
Women  folks  is  nervous-like,  anyhow,  and 
these  doings  of  late  hev  been  enough  to 
worrit  the  strongest  of  us  men." 

"Why,  there  ain't  an  hour  in  the  day," 
testified  Casey,  "that  Miss  Woppit  don't 
telephone  down  here  to  ask  whether  every 
thing  is  all  right,  and  whether  Jim  is  O.  K." 

"1  know  it,"  said  Jim.  "The  girl  is 
skeered,  and  I  'd  oughter  thought  of  it  before. 
I  must  bring  her  down  into  the  camp  to  live. 
Jest  ez  soon  ez  I  can  git  the  lumber  I  '11  put 
up  a  cabin  on  the  Bush  lot  next  to  the  bank." 

Jim  owned  the  Bush  lot,  as  it  was  called. 
'30 


OF  TALES 

He  had  talked  about  building  a  store  there 
in  the  spring,  but  we  all  applauded  this  sud 
den  determination  to  put  up  a  cabin  instead, 
a  home  for  his  sister.  That  was  a  determi 
nation  that  bespoke  a  thoughtfulness  and  a 
tenderness  that  ennobled  Jim  Woppit  in  our 
opinions.  It  was  the  square  thing. 

Barber  Sam,  ever  fertile  in  suggestion,  al 
lowed  that  it  might  be  a  pious  idea  for  Miss 
Woppit  to  move  down  to  the  Mears  House 
and  board  there  until  the  new  cabin  was 
built.  Possibly  the  circumstance  that  Bar 
ber  Sam  himself  boarded  at  the  Mears  House 
did  not  inspire  this  suggestion.  At  any 
rate,  the  suggestion  seemed  a  good  one,  but 
Jim  duly  reported  that  his  sister  thought  it 
better  to  stay  in  the  old  place  till  the  new 
place  was  ready;  she  had  stuck  it  out  so 
far,  and  she  would  try  to  stick  it  out  the  lit 
tle  while  longer  yet  required. 

This  ultimatum  must  have  interrupted  the 
serenity  of  Barber  Sam's  temper;  he  broke 
his  E  string  that  evening,  and  half  an  hour 
later  somebody  sat  down  on  the  guitar  and 
cracked  it  irremediably. 

And  now  again  it  was  spring.     Nothing 

'3' 


SECOND   BOOK 

can  keep  away  the  change  in  the  season.  In 
the  mountain  country  the  change  comes 
swiftly,  unheralded.  One  day  it  was  bleak 
and  cheerless;  the  next  day  brought  with  it 
the  grace  of  sunshine  and  warmth ;  as  if  by 
magic,  verdure  began  to  deck  the  hillsides, 
and  we  heard  again  the  cheerful  murmur  of 
waters  in  the  gulch.  The  hollyhocks  about 
The  Bower  shot  up  once  more  and  put  forth 
their  honest,  rugged  leaves.  In  this  divine 
springtime,  who  could  think  evil,  who  do  it  ? 

Sir  Charles  Lackington,  president  of  the 
Royal  Victoria  mine,  was  now  due  at  the 
camp.  He  represented  the  English  syndi 
cate  that  owned  the  large  property.  Ill 
health  compelled  him  to  live  at  Colorado 
Springs.  Once  a  year  he  visited  Red  Hoss 
Mountain,  and  always  in  May.  It  was  an 
nounced  that  he  would  come  to  the  camp 
by  Tuesday's  stage.  That  stage  was  robbed 
by  that  mysterious  outlaw  and  his  gang. 
But  Sir  Charles  happened  not  to  be  among 
the  passengers. 

This  robbery  (the  fourth  altogether)  took 
place  at  a  point  midway  between  Lone  Pine 
and  the  glen.  The  highwayman  darted  upon 
132 


OF  TALES 

the  leading  horses  as  they  were  descending 
the  hill  and  so  misdirected  their  course  that 
the  coach  was  overturned  in  the  brush  at 
the  roadside.  In  the  fall  Steve  Barclay's 
right  arm  was  broken.  With  consummate 
coolness  the  highwayman  (now  positively 
described  as  a  thick-set  man,  with  a  beard) 
proceeded  to  relieve  his  victims  of  their  val 
uables,  but  not  until  he  had  called,  as  was 
his  wont,  to  his  confederates  in  ambush  to 
keep  the  passengers  covered  with  their  rifles. 
The  outlaw  inquired  which  of  his  victims 
was  Sir  Charles  Lackington,  and  evinced  rage 
when  he  learned  that  that  gentleman  was 
not  among  the  passengers  by  coach. 

It  happened  that  Jake  Dodsley  was  one  of 
the  victims  of  the  highwayman's  greed.  He 
had  been  to  Denver  and  was  bringing  home 
a  pair  of  elaborate  gold  earrings  which  he 
intended  for— for  Miss  Woppit,  of  course. 
Poets  have  deeper  and  stronger  feelings  than 
common  folk.  Jake  Dodsley's  poetic  nature 
rebelled  when  he  found  himself  deprived  of 
those  lovely  baubles  intended  for  the  idol  of 
his  heart.  So,  no  sooner  had  the  outlaw  re 
treated  to  the  brush  than  Jake  Dodsley 
'33 


SECOND   BOOK 

whipped  out  his  gun  and  took  to  the  same 
brush,  bent  upon  an  encounter  with  his  des- 
poiler.  Poor  Jake  never  came  from  the 
brush  alive.  The  rest  heard  the  report  of  a 
rifle  shot,  and  when,  some  time  later,  they 
found  Jake,  he  was  dead,  with  a  rifle  ball  in 
his  head. 

The  first  murder  done  and  the  fourth  rob 
bery!  Yet  the  mystery  was  as  insoluble  as 
ever.  Of  what  avail  was  the  rage  of  eight 
hundred  miners,  the  sagacity  of  the  indefat 
igable  officers  of  the  law,  and  the  united  ef 
forts  of  the  vengeance-breathing  population 
throughout  the  country  round  about  to  hunt 
the  murderers  down  ?  Why,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  devil  himself  were  holding  justice  up 
to  ridicule  and  scorn. 

We  had  the  funeral  next  day.  Sir  Charles 
Lackington  came  by  private  wagon  in  the 
morning;  his  daughter  was  with  him.  Their 
escape  from  participation  in  the  affair  of  the 
previous  day  naturally  filled  them  with 
thanksgiving,  yet  did  not  abate  their  sym 
pathy  for  the  rest  of  us  in  our  mourning  over 
the  dead  poet.  Sir  Charles  was  the  first  to 
suggest  a  fund  for  a  monument  to  poor  Jake, 

134 


OF  TALES 

and  he  headed  the  subscription  list  with  one 
hundred  dollars,  cash  down.  A  noble  fu 
neral  it  was;  everybody  cried;  at  the  grave 
Three-fingered  Hoover  recited  the  poem 
about  true  love  and  Jim  Woppit  threw  in  a 
wreath  of  hollyhock  leaves  which  his  sister 
had  sent — the  poor  thing  was  too  sick  to 
come  herself.  She  must  have  cared  more 
for  Jake  than  she  had  ever  let  on,  for  she 
took  to  her  bed  when  she  heard  that  he  was 
dead. 

Amid  the  deepest  excitement  further 
schemes  for  the  apprehension  of  the  crimi 
nals  who  had  so  long  baffled  detection  were 
set  on  foot  and — but  this  is  not  a  story  of 
crime;  it  is  the  story  of  a  wooing,  and  I  must 
not  suffer  myself  to  be  drawn  away  from  the 
narrative  of  that  wooing.  With  the  death 
of  the  poet  Dodsley  one  actor  fell  out  of  the 
little  comedy.  And  yet  another  stepped  in 
at  once.  You  would  hardly  guess  who  it 
was  —  Mary  Lackington.  This  seventeen- 
year-old  girl  favored  her  father  in  personal 
appearance  and  character;  she  was  of  the 
English  type  of  blonde  beauty  —  a  light- 
hearted,  good-hearted,  sympathetic  creature 
135 


SECOND   BOOK 

who  recognized  it  as  her  paramount  duty  to 
minister  to  her  invalid  father.  He  had  been 
her  instructor  in  books,  he  had  conducted 
her  education,  he  had  directed  her  amuse 
ments,  he  had  been  her  associate  —  in  short, 
father  and  daughter  were  companions,  and 
from  that  sweet  companionship  both  derived 
a  solace  and  wisdom  precious  above  all 
things  else.  Mary  Lackington  was,  perhaps, 
in  some  particulars  mature  beyond  her  years; 
the  sweetness,  the  simplicity,  and  the  guile- 
lessness  of  her  character  was  the  sweetness, 
the  simplicity,  and  theguilelessness  of  child 
hood.  Fairand  innocent,  this  womanly  maid 
en  came  into  the  comedy  of  that  mountain 
wooing. 

Three-fingered  Hoover  had  never  been  re 
garded  an  artful  man,  but  now,  all  at  once,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  practised  a  subtle 
ty.  He  became  acquainted  with  Mary  Lack 
ington;  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not  meet 
Sir  Charles  at  the  firemen's  muster  in  Pueblo 
some  years  before.  Getting  acquainted  with 
Miss  Mary  was  no  hard  thing;  the  girl  flitted 
whithersoever  she  pleased,  and  she  enjoyed 
chatting  with  the  miners,  whom  she  found 
136 


OF  TALES 

charmingly  fresh,  original,  and  manly,  and  as 
for  the  miners,  they  simply  adored  Miss 
Mary.  Sir  Charles  owed  his  popularity 
largely  to  his  winsome  daughter. 

Mary  was  not  long  in  discovering  that 
Three-fingered  Hoover  had  a  little  romance 
all  of  his  own.  Maybe  some  of  the  other 
boys  told  her  about  it.  At  any  rate,  Mary 
was  charmed,  and  without  hesitation  she 
commanded  Hoover  to  confess  all.  How 
the  big,  awkward  fellow  ever  got  through 
with  it  I  for  my  part  can't  imagine,  but  tell 
her  he  did  —  yes,  he  fairly  unbosomed  his 
secret,  and  Mary  was  still  more  delighted 
and  laughed  and  declared  that  it  was  the 
loveliest  love  story  she  had  ever  heard. 
Right  here  was  where  Hoover's  first  and 
only  subtlety  came  in. 

"And  now,  Miss  Mary,"  says  he,  ''you 
can  do  me  a  good  turn,  and  I  hope  you  will 
do  it.  Get  acquainted  with  the  lady  and 
work  it  up  with  her  for  me.  Tell  her  that 
you  know  —  not  that  I  told  you,  but  that  you 
happen  to  have  found  it  out,  that  I  like  her 
—  like  her  better  'n  anybody  else;  that  I  'm 
the  pure  stuff;  that  if  anybody  ties  to  me 
>37 


SECOND    BOOK 

they  cnn  find  me  thar  every  time  and  can  bet 
their  last  case  on  me!  Don't  lay  it  on  too 
thick,  but  sort  of  let  on  I  'm  O.  K.  You 
women  understand  such  things  —  if  you  '11 
help  me  locate  this  claim  I  'm  sure  every 
thing  '11  pan  out  all  right;  will  ye  ?" 

The  bare  thought  of  promoting  a  love  af 
fair  set  Mary  nearly  wild  with  enthusiasm. 
She  had  read  of  experiences  of  this  kind,  but 
of  course  she  had  never  participated  in  any. 
She  accepted  the  commission  gayly  yet 
earnestly.  She  would  seek  Miss  Woppit  at 
once,  and  she  would  be  so  discreet  in  her 
tactics  —  yes,  she  would  be  as  artful  as  the 
most  skilled  diplomat  at  the  court  of  love. 

Had  she  met  Miss  Woppit  ?  Yes,  and 
then  again  no.  She  had  been  rambling  in 
the  glen  yesterday  and,  coming  down  the 
road,  had  stopped  near  the  pathway  leading 
to  The  Bower  to  pick  a  wild  flower  of  ex 
ceeding  brilliancy.  About  to  resume  her 
course  to  camp  she  became  aware  that  an 
other  stood  near  her.  A  woman,  having 
passed  noiselessly  from  the  cabin,  stood  in 
the  gravelly  pathway  looking  upon  the  girl 
with  an  expression  wholly  indefinable.  The 
.38 


OF   TALES 

woman  was  young,  perhaps  twenty;  she 
was  tall  and  of  symmetrical  form,  though 
rather  stout;  her  face  was  comely,  perchance 
a  bit  masculine  in  its  strength  of  features, 
and  the  eyes  were  shy,  but  of  swift  and  cer 
tain  glance,  as  if  instantaneously  they  read 
through  and  through  the  object  upon  which 
they  rested. 

"  You  frightened  me,  "said  Mary  Lacking- 
ton,  and  she  had  been  startled,  truly;  "I 
did  not  hear  you  coming,  and  so  I  was  fright 
ened  when  I  saw  you  standing  there." 

To  this  explanation  the  apparition  made 
no  answer,  but  continued  to  regard  Mary 
steadfastly  with  the  indefinable  look  —  an 
expression  partly  of  admiration,  partly  of 
distrust,  partly  of  appeal,  perhaps.  Mary 
Lackington  grew  nervous;  she  did  therefore 
the  most  sensible  thing  she  could  have  done 
under  the  circumstances  —  she  proceeded 
on  her  way  homeward. 

This,  then,  was  Mary's  first  meeting  with 
Miss  Woppit.  Not  particularly  encouraging 
to  a  renewal  of  the  acquaintance;  yet  now 
that  Mary  had  so  delicate  and  so  important 
a  mission  to  execute  she  burned  to  know 

'39 


SECOND   BOOK 

more  of  the  lonely  creature  on  that  hill  side, 
and  she  accepted  with  enthusiasm,  as  I  have 
said,  the  charge  committed  to  her  by  the 
enamored  Hoover. 

Sir  Charles  and  his  daughter  remained  at 
the  camp  about  three  weeks.  In  that  time 
Mary  became  friendly  with  Miss  Woppit,  as 
intimate,  in  fact,  as  it  was  possible  for  any 
body  to  become  with  her.  Mary  found  her 
self  drawn  strangely  and  inexplicably  toward 
the  woman.  The  fascination  which  Miss 
Woppit  exercised  over  her  was  altogether 
new  to  Mary;  here  was  a  woman  of  lowly 
birth  and  in  lowly  circumstances,  illiterate, 
neglected,  lonely,  yet  possessing  a  charm  — 
an  indefinable  charm  which  was  distinct  and 
potent,  yet  not  to  be  analyzed  —  yes,  hardly 
recognizable  by  any  process  of  cool  mental 
dissection,  but  magically  persuasive  in  the 
subtlety  of  its  presence  and  influence.  Mary 
had  sought  to  locate,  to  diagnose  that  charm ; 
did  it  lie  in  her  sympathy  with  the  woman's 
lonely  lot,  or  was  it  the  romance  of  the 
wooing,  or  was  it  the  fascination  of  those 
restless,  searching  eyes  that  Mary  so  often 
looked  up  to  find  fixed  upon  her  with  an 
140 


OF   TALES 

expression  she  could  not  forget  and  could 
not  define  ? 

I  incline  to  the  belief  that  all  these  things 
combined  to  constitute  the  charm  whereof  1 
speak.  Miss  Woppit  had  not  the  beauty 
that  would  be  likely  to  attract  one  of  her  own 
sex ;  she  had  none  of  the  sprightliness  and 
wit  of  womankind,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
wholly  unacquainted  with  the  little  arts, 
accomplishments  and  vanities  in  which  wo 
men  invariably  find  amusement.  She  was 
simply  a  strange,  lonely  creature  who  had 
accepted  valorously  her  duty  to  minister  to 
the  comfort  of  her  brother ;  the  circumstances 
of  her  wooing  invested  her  name  and  her 
lot  with  a  certain  pleasing  romance;  she 
was  a  woman,  she  was  loyal  to  her  sense  of 
duty,  and  she  was,  to  a  greater  degree  than 
most  women,  a  martyr  —  herein,  perhaps, 
lay  the  secret  to  the  fascination  Miss  Wop- 
pit  had  for  Mary  Lackington. 

At  any  rate,  Mary  and  Miss  Woppit  be 
came,  to  all  appearances,  fast  friends;  the 
wooing  of  Miss  Woppit  progressed  apace, 
and  the  mystery  of  those  Red  Hoss  Mountain 
crimes  became  more  and  — but  I  have  al- 
141 


SECOND    BOOK 

ready  declared  myself  upon  that  point  and  I 
shall  say  no  more  thereof  except  so  far  as 
bears  directly  upon  my  story,  which  is,  I 
repeat,  of  a  wooing,  and  not  of  crime. 

Three-fingered  Hoover  had  every  confi 
dence  in  the  ultimate  success  of  the  scheme 
to  which  Miss  Mary  had  become  an  enthusi 
astic  party.  In  occasional  pessimistic  moods 
he  found  himself  compelled  to  confess  to  him 
self  that  the  reports  made  by  Miss  Mary  were 
not  altogether  such  as  would  inspire  enthu 
siasm  in  the  bosom  of  a  man  less  optimistic 
than  he — Hoover  —  was. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Mary  found  the  task  of 
doing  Hoover's  courting  for  him  much  more 
difficult  than  she  had  ever  fancied  a  task  of 
that  kind  could  be.  In  spite  of  her  unac- 
quaintance  with  the  artifices  of  the  world  Miss 
Woppit  exhibited  the  daintiest  skill  at  turn 
ing  the  drift  of  the  conversation  whenever, 
by  the  most  studied  tact,  Mary  Lackington 
succeeded  in  bringing  the  conversation 
around  to  a  point  where  the  virtues  of  Three- 
fingered  Hoover,  as  a  candidate  for  Miss 
Woppit's  esteem,  could  be  expatiated  upon. 
From  what  Miss  Woppit  implied  rather  than 
142 


OF  TALES 

said,  Mary  took  it  that  Miss  Woppit  esteemed 
Mr.  Hoover  highly  as  a  gentleman  and  as  a 
friend — that  she  perhaps  valued  his  friend 
ship  more  than  she  did  that  of  any  other 
man  in  the  world,  always  excepting  her 
brother  Jim,  of  course. 

Miss  Mary  reported  all  this  to  Hoover 
much  more  gracefully  than  I  have  put  it,  for, 
being  a  woman,  her  sympathies  would  natu 
rally  exhibit  themselves  with  peculiar  ten 
derness  when  conveying  to  a  lover  certain 
information  touching  his  inamorata. 

There  were  two  subjects  upon  which  Miss 
Woppit  seemed  to  love  to  hear  Mary  talk. 
One  was  Mary  herself  and  the  other  was  Jim 
Woppit.  Mary  regarded  this  as  being  very 
natural.  Why  should  n't  this  women  in 
exile  pine  to  hear  of  the  gay,  beautiful  world 
outside  her  pent  horizon  ?  So  Mary  told 
her  all  about  the  sights  she  had  seen,  the 
places  she  had  been  to,  the  people  she  had 
met,  the  books  she  had  read,  the  dresses 
she  —  but,  no,  Miss  Woppit  cared  noth 
ing  for  that  kind  of  gossip  —  now  you  '11 
agree  that  she  was  a  remarkable  woman, 
not  to  want  to  hear  all  about  the  lovely 

'43 


SECOND   BOOK 

dresses  Mary  had  seen  and  could  describe 
so  eloquently. 

Then  again,  as  to  Jim,  was  n't  it  natural 
that  Miss  Woppit,  fairly  wrapped  up  in  that 
brother,  should  be  anxious  to  hear  the  good 
opinion  that  other  folk  had  of  him  ?  Did  the 
miners  like  Jim,  she  asked  —  what  did  they 
say,  and  what  did  Sir  Charles  say  ?  Miss 
Woppit  was  fertile  in  questionings  of  this 
kind,  and  Mary  made  satisfactory  answers, 
for  she  was  sure  that  everybody  liked  Jim, 
and  as  for  her  father,  why,  he  had  taken  Jim 
right  into  his  confidence  the  day  he  came 
to  the  camp. 

Sir  Charles  had  indeed  made  a  confidant 
of  Jim.  One  day  he  called  him  into  his 
room  at  the  Mears  House.  "  Mr.  City  Mar 
shal,"  said  Sir  Charles,  in  atone  that  implied 
secrecy,  "I  have  given  it  out  that  I  shall 
leave  the  camp  for  home  day  after  to 
morrow." 

"Yes,  I  had  heerd  talk,"  answered  Jim 
Woppit.  "  You  are  going  by  the  stage." 

"Certainly,  by  the  stage, "said  Sir  Charles, 
"but  not  day  after  to-morrow;  I  go  to 
morrow." 

'44 


OF  TALES 

"  To-morrow,  sir  ?" 

"To-morrow,"  repeated  Sir  Charles. 
"The  coach  leaves  here,  as  I  am  told,  at 
eleven  o'  clock.  At  four  we  shall  arrive  at 
Wolcott  Siding,  there  to  catch  the  down  ex 
press,  barring  delay.  I  say  'barring  delay,' 
and  it  is  with  a  view  to  evading  the  proba 
bility  of  delay  that  I  have  given  out  that  I 
am  to  leave  on  a  certain  day,  whereas,  in 
fact,  1  shall  leave  a  day  earlier.  You  under 
stand  ?" 

"You  bet  I  do,"  said  Jim.  "You  are 
afraid  of  —  of  the  robbers  ?  " 

"I  shall  have  some  money  with  me,"  an 
swered  Sir  Charles,  "but  that  alone  does 
not  make  me  desirous  of  eluding  the  high 
waymen.  My  daughter  —  a  fright  of  that 
kind  might  lead  to  the  most  disastrous  re 
sults." 

"Correct,"  said  Jim. 

"  So  I  have  planned  this  secret  departure," 
continued  Sir  Charles.  "No  one  in  the 
camp  now  knows  of  it  but  you  and  me,  and 
I  have  a  favor  —  a  distinct  favor  —  to  ask  of 
you  in  pursuance  of  this  plan.  It  is  that  you 
and  a  posse  of  the  bravest  men  you  can  pick 

•45 


SECOND   BOOK 

shall  accompany  the  coach,  or,  what  is  per 
haps  better,  precede  the  coach  by  a  few 
minutes,  so  as  to  frighten  away  the  out 
laws  in  case  they  may  happen  to  be  lurking 
in  ambush." 

Jim  signified  his  hearty  approval  of  the 
proposition.  He  even  expressed  a  fervent 
hope  that  a  rencontre  with  the  outlaws  might 
transpire,  and  then  he  muttered  a  cordial 
"  d 'em!  " 

"In  order,  however,"  suggested  Sir 
Charles,  "  to  avert  suspicion  here  in  camp  it 
would  be  wise  for  your  men  to  meet  quietly 
at  some  obscure  point  and  ride  together,  not 
along  the  main  road,  but  around  the  moun 
tain  by  the  Tin  Cup  path,  coining  in  on  the 
main  road  this  side  of  Lone  Pine  ranch.  You 
should  await  our  arrival,  and  then,  every 
thing  being  tranquil,  your  posse  can  precede 
us  as  an  advance  guard  in  accordance  with 
my  previous  suggestion." 

"  It  might  be  a  pious  idea, "  said  Jim,  ' '  for 
me  to  give  the  boys  a  pointer.  They  '11  be 
on  to  it,  anyhow,  and  1  know  'em  well 
enough  to  trust  'em." 

"  You  know  your  men;  do  as  you  please 
146 


OF  TALES 

about  apprising  them  of  their  errand,"  said 
Sir  Charles.  "I  have  only  to  request  that 
you  assure  each  that  he  will  be  well  re 
warded  for  his  services. 

This  makes  a  rude  break  in  our  wooing; 
but  I  am  narrating  actual  happenings.  Poor 
old  Hoover's  subtlety  all  for  naught,  Mary's 
friendly  offices  incompleted,  the  pleasant  vis 
its  to  the  cabin  among  the  hollyhocks  sus 
pended  perhaps  forever,  Miss  Woppit's 
lonely  lot  rendered  still  more  lonely  by  the 
departure  of  her  sweet  girl  friend  —  all  this 
was  threatened  by  the  proposed  flight  —  for 
flight  it  was — of  Sir  Charles  and  Mary 
Lackington. 

That  May  morning  was  a  glorious  one. 
Summer  seemed  to  have  burst  upon  the 
camp  and  the  noble  mountain-sentinels 
about  it. 

"  We  are  going  to-day,"  said  Sir  Charles 
to  his  daughter.  ''Hush!  not  a  word  about 
it  to  anybody.  I  have  reasons  for  wishing 
our  departure  to  be  secret." 

"You  have  heard  bad  news?"  asked 
Mary,  quickly. 

•'  Not  at  all,"  answered  Sir  Charles,  smil 
ey 


SECOND   BOOK 

ingly.  "There  is  absolutely  no  cause  for 
alarm.  We  must  go  quietly;  when  we 
reach  home  I  will  tell  you  my  reasons  and 
then  we  will  have  a  hearty  laugh  together." 

Mary  Lackington  set  about  packing  her 
effects,  and  all  the  time  her  thoughts  were 
of  her  lonely  friend  in  the  hill-side  cabin.  In 
this  hour  of  her  departure  she  felt  herself 
drawn  even  more  strangely  and  tenderly 
toward  that  weird,  incomprehensible  crea 
ture;  such  a  tugging  at  her  heart  the  girl 
had  never  experienced  till  now.  What 
would  Miss  Woppit  say  —  what  would  she 
think  ?  The  thought  of  going  away  with 
never  so  much  as  a  good-by  struck  Mary 
Lackington  as  being  a  wanton  piece  of 
heartlessness.  But  she  would  write  to  Miss 
Woppit  as  soon  as  ever  she  reached  home  — 
she  would  write  a  letter  that  would  banish 
every  suspicion  of  unfeelingness. 

Then,  too,  Mary  thought  of  Hoover;  what 
would  the  big,  honest  fellow  think,  to  find 
himself  deserted  in  this  emergency  without 
a  word  of  warning  ?  Altogether  it  was  very 
dreadful.  But  Mary  Lackington  was  a  daugh 
ter  who  did  her  father's  bidding  trustingly. 
,48 


OF  TALES 

Three-fingered  Hoover  went  with  Jim 
Woppit  that  day.  There  were  thirteen  in 
the  posse — fatal  number  —  mounted  on 
sturdy  bronchos  and  armed  to  the  teeth. 
They  knew  their  business  and  they  went 
gayly  on  their  way.  Around  the  mountain 
and  over  the  Tin  Cup  path  they  galloped,  a 
good  seven  miles,  I  '11  dare  swear;  and  now 
at  last  they  met  up  with  the  main  road,  and 
at  Jim  Woppit's  command  they  drew  in 
under  the  trees  to  await  the  approach  of  the 
party  in  the  stage. 

Meanwhile  in  camp  the  comedy  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  Bill  Merridew  drove 
stage  that  day;  he  was  Steve  Barclay's 
pardner  —  pretty  near  the  only  man  in  camp 
that  stood  out  for  Steve  when  he  was  sus- 
picioned  of  being  in  some  sort  of  cahoots 
with  the  robbers.  Steve  Barclay's  arm  was 
still  useless  and  Bill  was  reckoned  the  next 
best  horseman  in  the  world. 

The  stage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Mears 
House.  Perhaps  half  a  dozen  passengers 
were  in  waiting  and  the  usual  bevy  of  idlers 
was  there  to  watch  the  departure.  Great 
was  the  astonishment  when  Sir  Charles  and 
140 


SECOND    BOOK 

Mary  Lackington  appeared  and  stepped  into 
the  coach.  Everybody  knew  Sir  Charles 
and  his  daughter,  and,  as  I  have  told  you, 
it  had  been  given  out  that  they  were  not  to 
leave  the  camp  until  the  morrow.  Forth 
with  there  passed  around  mysterious  whis 
perings  as  to  the  cause  of  Sir  Charles'  sud 
den  departure. 

It  must  have  been  a  whim  on  Barber 
Sam's  part.  At  any  rate,  he  issued  just  then 
from  Casey's  restaurant  across  the  way, 
jaunty  and  chipper  as  ever.  He  saw  Sir 
Charles  in  the  stage  and  Bill  Merridew  on 
the  box.  He  gave  a  low,  significant  whis 
tle.  Then  he  crossed  the  road. 

"  Bill,"  says  he,  quietly,  "  It  'sa  summer- 
ish  day,  and  not  feelin'  just  as  pert  as  I 
oughter  I  reckon  I  '11  ride  a  right  smart  piece 
with  you  for  my  health !  " 

With  these  words  Barber  Sam  climbed  up 
and  sat  upon  the  box  with  Bill  Merridew. 
A  moment  later  the  stage  was  on  its  course 
along  the  main  road. 

"  Look  a'  here,  Bill  Merridew,"  says  Bar 
ber  Sam,  fiercely,  "  there  's  a  lord  inside  and 
you  outside,  to-day  —  a  mighty  suspicious 


OF  TALES 

coincidence!  No,  you  need  n't  let  on  you 
don't  tumble  to  my  meenin' !  I  've  had  my 
eye  on  Steve  Barclay  an'  you,  and  I  'm  ready 
for  a  showdown.  1  'm  travelin'  for  my 
health  to-day,  and  so  are  you,  Bill  Merridew ! 
I  'm  fixed  from  the  ground  up  an'  you  know 
there  ain't  a  man  in  the  Red  Hoss  Mountain 
country  that  is  handier  with  a  gun  than  me. 
Now  I  mean  bizness;  if  there  is  any  on- 
pleasantness  to-day  and  if  you  try  to  come 

any  funny  bizness,  why,  d me,  Bill 

Merridew,  if  I  don't  blow  your  head  off!  " 

Pleasant  words  these  for  Bill  to  listen  to. 
But  Bill  knew  Barber  Sam  and  he  had  pres 
ence  of  mind  enough  to  couch  his  expostu- 
latory  reply  in  the  most  obsequious  terms. 
He  protested  against  Barber  Sam's  harsh  im 
putations. 

"I  '  ve  had  my  say, "  was  Barber  Sam's  an 
swer.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  rub  it  in.  You  under 
stand  that  I  mean  bizness  this  trip;  so  don't 
forget  it.  Now  let 's  talk  about  the  weather." 

Mary  Lackington  had  hoped  that,  as  they 
passed  The  Bower,  she  would  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Miss  Woppit — perhaps  have  suf 
ficient  opportunity  to  call  out  a  hasty  fare- 


SECOND   BOOK 

well  to  her.  But  Miss  Woppit  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  The  little  door  of  the  cabin  was 
open,  so  presumably  the  mistress  was  not 
far  away.  Mary  was  disappointed,  vexed  ; 
she  threw  herself  back  and  resigned  herself 
to  indignant  reflections. 

The  stage  had  proceeded  perhaps  four 
miles  on  its  way  when  its  progress  was  ar 
rested  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  man, 
whose  habit  and  gestures  threatened  evil. 
This  stranger  was  of  short  and  chunky  build 
and  he  was  clad  in  stout,  dark  garments 
that  fitted  him  snugly.  A  slouch  hat  was 
pulled  down  over  his  head  and  a  half-mask 
of  brown  muslin  concealed  the  features  of 
his  face.  He  held  out  two  murderous  pis 
tols  and  in  a  sharp  voice  cried  "  Halt! "  In 
stantaneously  Barber  Sam  recognized  in  this 
bold  figure  the  mysterious  outlaw  who  for 
so  many  months  had  been  the  terror  of  the 
district,  and  instinctively  he  reached  for  his 
pistol-pocket. 

"Throw  up  your  hands!"  commanded 
the  outlaw.  He  had  the  drop  on  them.  Re 
calling  poor  Jake  Dodsley's  fate  Barber  Sam 
discreetly  did  as  he  was  bidden.  As  for 
152 


OF  TALES 

Bill  Merridew,  he  was  shaking  like  a  wine- 
jelly.  The  horses  had  come  to  a  stand,  and 
the  passengers  in  the  coach  were  wondering 
why  a  stop  had  been  made  so  soon.  Wholly 
unaware  of  what  had  happened,  Mary  Lack- 
ington  thrust  her  head  from  the  door  win 
dow  of  the  coach  and  looked  forward  up  the 
road,  in  the  direction  of  the  threatening  out 
law.  She  comprehended  the  situation  at 
once  and  with  a  scream  fell  back  into  her 
father's  arms. 

Presumably,  the  unexpected  discovery  of 
a  woman  among  the  number  of  his  intended 
victims  disconcerted  the  ruffian.  At  any 
rate,  he  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  and  for 
a  moment  lowered  his  weapons.  That  mo 
ment  was  fatal  to  him.  Quick  as  lightning 
Barber  Sam  whipped  out  his  unerring  revol 
ver  and  fired.  The  outlaw  fell  like  a  lump 
of  dough  in  the  road.  At  that  instant  Bill 
Merridew  recovered  his  wits ;  gathering  up 
the  lines  and  laying  on  the  whip  mercilessly 
he  urged  his  horses  into  a  gallop.  Over  the 
body  of  the  outlaw  crunched  the  hoofs  of 
the  frightened  brutes  and  rumbled  the 
wheels  of  the  heavy  stage. 
153 


SECOND   ROOK 

"We  've  got  him  this  time!  "  yelled  Bar 
ber  Sam,  wildly.  "Stop  your  horses,  Bill 
— you  're  all  right,  Bill,  and  I  'm  sorry  I  ever 
did  you  dirt — stop  your  horses,  and  let  's 
finish  the  sneakin'  critter!" 

There  was  the  greatest  excitement.  The 
passengers  fairly  fell  out  of  the  coach,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  they  had  an  arsenal  with  them. 
Mary  Lackington  was  as  self-possessed  as 
any  of  the  rest. 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  dead?"  she  asked. 
"  Don't  let  us  go  nearer  till  we  know  that 
he  is  dead;  he  will  surely  kill  us! " 

The  gamest  man  in  the  world  would  n't 
have  stood  the  ghost  of  a  show  in  the  face 
of  those  murderous  weapons  now  brought 
to  bear  on  the  fallen  and  crushed  wretch. 

"If  he  ain't  dead  already  he  's  so  near  it 
that  there  ain't  no  fun  in  it,"  said  Bill  Merri- 
dew. 

In  spite  of  this  assurance,  however,  the 
party  advanced  cautiously  toward  the  man. 
Convinced  finally  that  there  was  no  longer 
cause  for  alarm,  Barber  Sam  strode  boldly  up 
to  the  body,  bent  over  it,  tore  off  the  hat  and 
pulled  aside  the  muslin  half-mask.  One 
'54 


OF  TALES 

swift  glance  at  the  outlaw's  face,  and  Barber 
Sam  recoiled. 

' '  Great  God !  "  he  cried,  ' '  Miss  Woppit !  " 

It  was,  indeed,  Miss  Woppit — the  fair- 
haired,  shy-eyed  boy  who  for  months  had 
masqueraded  in  the  camp  as  a  woman. 
Now,  that  masquerade  disclosed  and  the 
dreadful  mystery  of  the  past  revealed,  the 
nameless  boy,  fair  in  spite  of  his  crimes  and 
his  hideous  wounds,  lay  dying  in  the  dust 
and  gravel  of  the  road. 

Jim  Woppit  and  his  posse,  a  mile  away, 
had  heard  the  pistol-shot.  It  seemed  but  a 
moment  ere  they  swept  down  the  road  to 
the  scene  of  the  tragedy ;  they  came  with  the 
swiftness  of  the  wind.  Jim  Woppit  gal 
loped  ahead,  his  swarthy  face  the  picture  of 
terror. 

"Who  is  it — who  's  killed  —  who  's 
hurt?"  he  asked. 

Nobody  made  answer,  and  that  meant 
everything  to  Jim.  He  leapt  from  his  horse, 
crept  to  the  dying  boy's  side  and  took  the 
bruised  head  into  his  lap.  The  yellowish 
hair  had  fallen  down  about  the  shoulders; 
Jim  stroked  it  and  spoke  to  the  white  face, 

'55 


SECOND    BOOK 

repeating  "Willie,  Willie,  Willie,"  over  and 
over  again. 

The  presence  and  the  voice  of  that  evil 
brother,  whom  he  had  so  bravely  served, 
seemed  to  arrest  the  offices  of  Death.  The 
boy  came  slowly  to,  opened  his  eyes  and 
saw  Jim  Woppit  there.  There  was  pathos, 
not  reproach,  in  the  dying  eyes. 

"  It  's  all  up,  Jim,"  said  the  boy,  faintly, 
"  I  did  the  best  I  could." 

All  that  Jim  Woppit  could  answer  was 
"Willie,  Willie,  Willie,"  over  and  over 
again. 

""This  was  to  have  been  the  last  and  we 
were  going  away  to  be  decent  folks,"  this 
was  what  the  boy  went  on  to  say;  "I  wish 
it  could  have  been  so,  for  I  have  wanted  to 
live  ever  since  —  ever  since  I  knew  her." 

Mary  Lackington  gave  a  great  moan.  She 
stood  a  way  off,  but  she  heard  these  words 
and  they  revealed  much  —  so  very  much  to 
her  — more,  perhaps,  than  you  and  I  can 
guess. 

He  did  not  speak  her  name.     The  boy 
seemed  not  to  know  that  she  was  there.    He 
said  no  other  word,  but  with  Jim  Woppit 
156 


OF  TALES 

bending  over  him  and  wailing  that  piteous 
' '  Willie,  Willie,  Willie, ' '  over  and  over  again, 
the  boy  closed  his  eyes  and  was  dead. 

Then  they  all  looked  upon  Jim  Woppit, 
but  no  one  spoke.  If  words  were  to  be  said, 
it  was  Jim  Woppit's  place  to  say  them,  and 
that  dreadful  silence  seemed  to  cry:  ''Speak 
out,  Jim  Woppit,  for  your  last  hour  has 
come! " 

Jim  Woppit  was  no  coward.  He  stood 
erect  before  them  all  and  plucked  from  his 
breast  the  star  of  his  office  and  cast  away 
from  him  the  weapon  he  had  worn.  He 
was  magnificent  in  that  last,  evil  hour! 

"Men,"  said  he.  "I  speak  for  him  an' 
not  for  myself.  Ez  God  is  my  judge,  that 
boy  wuz  not  to  blame.  1  made  him  do  it 
all— the  lyin',  the  robbery,  the  murder;  he 
done  it  because  I  told  him  to,  an'  because 
havin'  begun  he  tried  to  save  me.  Why, 
he  wuz  a  kid  ez  innocent  ez  a  leetle  toddlin' 
child.  He  wanted  to  go  away  from  here 
an'  be  different  from  wot  he  wuz,  but  I  kep' 
at  him  an'  made  him  do  an'  do  agin  wot  has 
brought  the  end  to-day.  Las'  night  he  cried 
when  I  told  him  he  must  do  the  stage  this 


SECOND    BOOK 

mornin  ;  seemed  like  he  wuzsoft  on  the  girl 
yonder.  It  wuz  to  have  been  the  las'  time 
—  I  promised  him  that,  an'  so  —  an'  so  it  is. 
Men,  you  '11  find  the  money  an'  everything 
else  in  the  cabin  —  under  the  floor  of  the  cab 
in.  Make  it  ez  square  all  round  ez  you  kin." 

Then  Jim  Woppit  backed  a  space  away, 
and,  before  the  rest  could  realize  what  he 
was  about,  he  turned,  darted  through  the 
narrow  thicket,  and  hurled  himself  into  the 
gulch,  seven  hundred  feet  down. 

But  the  May  sunlight  was  sweet  and  gra 
cious,  and  there  lay  the  dead  boy,  caressed 
of  that  charity  of  nature  and  smiling  in  its 
glory. 

Bill  was  the  first  to  speak  —  Bill  Merridew, 
I  mean.  He  was  Steve  Barclay's  partner  and 
both  had  been  wronged  most  grievously. 

"Now  throw  the  other  one  over,  too," 
cried  Bill,  savagely.  "Let  'em  both  rot  in 
the  gulch! " 

But  a  braver,  kindlier  man  said  "No!  "  It 
was  Three-fingered  Hoover,  who  came  for 
ward  now  and  knelt  beside  the  dead  boy 
and  held  the  white  face  between  his  hard, 
brown  hands  and  smoothed  the  yellowish 
158 


OF  TALES 

hair  and  looked  with  unspeakable  tenderness 
upon  the  closed  eyes. 

"  Leave  her  to  me,"  said  he,  reverently. 
"It  wuz  ez  near  ez  I  ever  come  to  lovin'  a 
woman,  and  I  reckon  it 's  ez  near  ez  I  ever 
shell  come.  So  let  me  do  with  her  ez  pleases 
me." 

It  was  their  will  to  let  Three-fingered 
Hoover  have  his  way.  With  exceeding 
tenderness  he  bore  the  body  back  to  camp 
and  he  gave  it  into  the  hands  of  womenfolk 
to  prepare  it  for  burial,  that  no  man's  touch 
should  profane  that  vestige  of  his  love.  You 
see  he  chose  to  think  of  her  to  the  last  as  she 
had  seemed  to  him  in  life. 

And  it  was  another  conceit  of  his  to  put 
over  the  grave,  among  the  hollyhocks  on 
that  mountain-side,  a  shaft  of  pure  white 
marble  bearing  simply  the  words  "Miss 
Woppit." 


'59 


THE  TALISMAN 


THERE  was  a  boy  named  Wilhelm  who 
was  the  only  son  of  a  widow.  He  was 
so  devoted  and  obedient  that  other  people 
in  the  village  used  to  be  saying  always: 
"  What  a  good  son  Wilhelm  is;  how  kind 
he  is  to  his  mother."  So,  while  he  was  the 
example  for  all  the  other  boys  in  the  village, 
he  was  the  pride  of  his  mother,  who  told 
him  that  some  day  he  would  marry  a  prin 
cess  for  having  been  such  a  good  and  duti 
ful  son. 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  out 
into  the  world  and  make  his  living,  his 
mother  blessed  him  and  said,  "  Here,  my 
son,  is  a  talisman,  which  you  are  to  hang 
about  your  neck  and  wear  nearest  your  heart. 
Whenever  you  are  in  trouble,  look  at  this 
talisman  and  it  will  preserve  you  from 
harm." 

.63 


SECOND   BOOK 

So,  with  his  mother's  kiss  upon  his  lips 
and  the  talisman  next  his  heart,  Wilhelm 
set  out  to  make  his  fortune  in  the  world. 
The  talisman  was  simply  an  old  silver  coin 
which  had  been  smoothly  polished  upon  one 
side  and  inscribed  with  the  word  "  Mother;  " 
yet  Wilhelm  prized  it  above  all  other  earthly 
things  —  first,  because  his  mother  had  given 
it  to  him,  and  again  because  he  believed  it 
possessed  a  charm  that  would  keep  him  from 
harm. 

Wilhelm  travelled  many  days  through  the 
forests  and  over  the  hills  in  search  of  a  town 
where  he  might  find  employment,  and  the 
food  with  which  his  mother  had  provided 
him  for  the  journey  was  nearly  gone.  But 
whenever  he  was  inclined  to  sadness,  he 
drew  the  talisman  from  his  bosom  and  the 
sight  of  the  name  of  mother  restored  his 
spirits. 

One  evening  as  he  climbed  a  hill,  he  beheld 
a  great  city  about  a  league  distant. 

"Here  at  last  I  shall  find  employment," 

thought  he.     But  he  had  no  sooner  uttered 

these  words  than  he  heard  something  like  a 

sigh  issuing  from  the  roadside  and  as  he 

164 


OF   TALES 

turned  to  discover  whence  it  came,  he  saw 
a  dark  and  forbidding  looking  old  castle 
standing  back  some  way  from  the  road  in  a 
cluster  of  forest  trees.  The  grounds  belong 
ing  to  this  old  castle  were  surrounded  by  a 
single  fence,  between  the  palings  of  which 
a  white  swan  stretched  out  its  neck  and  gave 
utterance  to  the  sighs  which  had  attracted 
Wilhelm's  attention. 

The  dismal  noise  made  by  the  bird  and 
its  strange  actions —  for  it  fluttered  its  wings 
wildly  and  waved  its  head  as  if  it  would 
have  Wilhelm  approach  —  excited  Wil 
helm's  curiosity,  and  he  drew  nearer  the 
fence  and  said,  "Why  do  you  act  so 
strangely,  white  swan  ?  " 

But  the  swan  made  no  answer  except  to 
sigh  more  dismally  than  before  and  flap  its 
wings  still  more  widely.  Then  Wilhelm 
saw  that  the  swan,  although  a  swan  in  every 
other  particular,  had  the  eyes  of  a  human 
being.  He  had  scarcely  recovered  from  the 
astonishment  occasioned  by  this  discovery, 
when  the  first  swan  was  joined  by  a  full 
score  of  other  white  swans  that  came  run 
ning  over  the  green  sward,  sighing  very  dis- 
165 


SECOND   BOOK 

mally   and   many  of  them  shedding  tears 
from  their  human  eyes. 

It  was  only  the  approach  of  night  that 
hastened  Wilhelm  on  his  journey  to  the  city, 
and,  as  he  trudged  along,  he  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  singular  adventure  with  the 
swans.  Presently  he  came  upon  a  country 
man  sitting  by  the  roadside,  and  to  him  he 
told  the  story  of  the  castle  and  the  swans. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  countryman,  "  you  are  an 
innocent  lad  to  be  sure !  That  was  the  castle 
of  the  old  witch,  and  the  swans  you  saw  are 
unfortunate  princes  whom  she  has  en 
chanted." 

Then  Wilhelm  begged  him  to  tell  him 
about  the  old  witch  and  the  poor  princes, 
and  the  countryman  told  him  all  from  first 
to  last,  only  I  will  have  to  make  it  much 
shorter,  as  it  was  a  long  tale. 

It  seems  that  the  old  witch  was  once  a 
princess  who  was  famed  for  her  beauty  and 
wit.  She  had  a  younger  sister  who  was 
quite  as  beautiful,  but  much  more  amiable 
and  much  less  ambitious.  These  sister 
princesses  lived  in  the  castle  together,  and 
the  elder,  whose  name  was  Mirza,  guarded 


160 


OF  TALES 

the  younger  very  jealously  lest  the  younger 
should  be  first  married.  One  time  the  Prince 
Joseph  determined  he  would  wed.  He  was 
the  handsomest  and  bravest  prince  in  the 
land  and  all  the  princesses  set  their  caps  for 
him,  Mirza  among  the  others.  But  it  came 
to  the  prince's  ears  that  Mirza  was  learned 
in  and  practised  witchcraft,  so,  despite  her 
beauty  and  her  grace,  he  would  have  no 
thought  of  Mirza,  but  chose  her  younger  sis 
ter  to  wife. 

When  the  prince  wedded  the  younger 
princess,  Mirza  was  enraged  beyond  all  say 
ing,  and  forthwith  she  dismissed  her  court 
and  gave  up  her  life  to  the  singing  of  incan 
tations  and  the  dreadful  practices  of  a  witch ; 
and  so  constant  was  she  in  the  practice  of 
those  black  arts  that  her  back  became  bent, 
her  hair  white,  and  her  face  wrinkled,  and 
she  grew  to  be  the  most  hideous  hag  in  the 
whole  kingdom.  Meanwhile,  the  prince  had 
become  king;  and  his  wife,  the  queen,  had 
presented  him  with  a  daughter,  so  beautiful 
that  her  like  had  never  been  seen  on  earth. 
This  little  princess  was  named  Mary,  a  name 
esteemed  then,  as  now,  as  the  most  beauti 
fy 


SECOND    BOOK 

ful  of  all  names.  Mary  increased  in  loveliness 
each  day  and  when  she  was  fifteen  the  fame 
of  her  beauty  and  amiability  was  worldwide. 

But  one  day,  as  the  princess  sat  counting 
her  pearls  in  her  chamber,  the  old  witch 
Mirza  flew  in  through  the  window  on  a 
broomstick  and  carried  the  princess  Mary  off 
to  her  forlorn  old  castle,  a  league  beyond 
the  city.  The  queen  mother,  who  had  wit 
nessed  this  violence,  fell  into  a  swoon  from 
which  she  never  recovered,  and  the  whole 
court  was  thrown  into  a  vast  commotion. 

Having  buried  his  fair  queen,  the  bereaved 
king  set  about  to  recover  his  daughter,  the 
princess  Mary,  but  this  was  found  to  be  im 
possible,  since  the  witch  had  locked  the  girl 
in  an  upper  chamber  of  the  castle  and  had 
set  a  catamaran  and  a  boogaboo  to  guard 
the  place.  So,  whenever  the  king's  soldiers 
attempted  to  rescue  the  princess,  the  cata 
maran  breathed  fire  from  his  nostrils  upon 
them  while  the  boogaboo  tore  out  their 
hearts  with  his  fierce  claws. 

Finally  the  king  sent  word  to  the  witch 
that  he  would  bestow  upon  her  all  the  riches 
of  his  kingdom  if  she  would  restore  his 
168 


OF  TALES 

daughter,  but  she  replied  that  there  was  only 
one  condition  upon  which  she  would  give 
up  the  princess  and  that  was  that  some 
young  man  of  the  kingdom  should  rightly 
answer  three  questions  she  would  propound. 
At  once  the  bravest  and  handsomest  knights 
in  the  kingdom  volunteered  to  rescue  the 
princess,  but  having  failed  to  answer  the 
questions  of  the  old  witch,  they  were  trans 
formed  into  swans  and  were  condemned  to 
eke  out  miserable  existences  in  the  dreary 
park  around  the  old  witch's  castle. 

"This,"  said  the  countryman,  "is  the 
story  of  the  princess,  the  witch  and  the 
swans.  Every  once  in  a  while,  an  adven 
turesome  youth  seeks  to  restore  the  princess 
to  her  father,  and  he  is  as  surely  transformed 
into  a  swan.  So,  while  the  court  is  in  mourn 
ing,  the  princess  pines  in  the  witch's  castle 
and  the  swans  wander  about  the  castle 
yard." 

This  piteous  tale  awakened  Wilhelm's 
sympathy,  and  although  it  was  now  quite 
dark,  he  determined  to  go  back  to  the  witch's 
castle  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  beautiful 
princess. 

169 


SECOND  BOOK 

11  May  luck  attend  thee,"  said  the  country 
man,  "  but  beware  of  the  catamaran  and  the 
boogaboo." 

As  he  was  plodding  back  to  the  witch's 
castle,  Wilhelm  drew  his  talisman  from  his 
bosom  and  gazed  tenderly  upon  it.  It  had 
never  looked  so  bright  and  shining.  The 
moon  beams  danced  upon  its  smooth  face 
and  kissed  it.  Wilhelm  was  confident  that 
this  was  an  omen  that  his  dear  mother  ap 
proved  the  errand  he  was  on.  Then  he 
knelt  down  by  the  roadside  and  said  a  little 
prayer,  and  when  he  had  finished,  the  night 
zephyrs  breathed  their  sweetest  music  in 
his  ears,  and  Wilhelm  thought  it  was  the 
heavenly  Father  whispering  words  of  en 
couragement  to  him.  So  Wilhelm  went 
boldly  toward  the  witch's  castle. 

As  he  drew  nigh  to  the  castle,  he  saw  the 
old  witch  fly  away  on  her  broomstick,  ac 
companied  by  a  bevy  of  snarling  hobgoblins 
that  were  also  on  broomsticks  and  looked 
very  hideous.  Then  Wilhelm  knew  the 
witch  and  her  escort  were  off  for  the  forest 
and  would  not  return  till  midnight. 

The  princess  Mary  was  standing  at  the 
170 


OF   TALES 

barred  window  of  her  chamber  and  was 
weeping.  As  Wilhelm  approached  the  castle, 
the  swans  rushed  to  meet  him,  and  the  flap 
ping  of  their  wings  and  their  piteous  cries 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  princess,  and 
she  saw  Wilhelm. 

"Oh,  fly  from  here,  sweet  prince,"  cried 
the  princess;  "for  if  the  witch  were  to  re 
turn,  she  would  kill  you  and  boil  your  heart 
in  her  cauldron!  " 

"I  am  no  prince,"  replied  Wilhelm,  "and 
I  do  not  fear  the  ugly  old  witch." 

Then  Wilhelm  told  the  princess  who  he 
was  and  how  he  was  ready  to  serve  her,  for, 
having  perceived  her  rare  beauty  and  amia 
bility,  he  was  madly  in  love  with  her  and 
was  ready  to  die  for  her  sake.  But  the  prin 
cess,  who  was  most  agreeably  impressed  by 
his  manly  figure,  handsome  face,  and  honest 
valor,  begged  him  not  to  risk  his  life  for  her. 

"  It  is  better  that  I  should  pass  my  exist 
ence  here  in  prison  "  said  she,  than  that 
you  should  be  transformed  as  these  other 
wretched  princes  have  been." 

And  when  they  heard  these  words,  the 
swans  craned  their  necks  and  gave  utterance 

171 


SECOND    BOOK 

to  such  heartrending  sighs  that  the  princess 
sobbed  with  renewed  vigor  and  even  Wil- 
helm  fell  to  weeping. 

At  this  moment,  hearing  the  commotion 
in  the  yard,  the  hideous  catamaran  and  the 
ugly  boogaboo  came  out  of  the  castle  and 
regarded  Wilhelm  with  ferocious  counte 
nances.  Never  before  had  Wilhelm  seen 
such  revolting  monsters! 

The  catamaran  had  a  body  and  tail  like  an 
alligator,  a  head  like  a  hippopotamus,  and 
four  legs  like  the  legs  of  an  ostrich.  The 
body  was  covered  with  greenish  scales,  its 
eyes  were  living  fire,  and  scorching  flames 
issued  from  its  mouth  and  ears.  The  boog 
aboo  was  none  the  less  frightful  in  its  ap 
pearance.  It  resembled  a  monster  ape,  ex 
cept  that  instead  of  a  hairy  hide  it  had  a 
scabby  skin  as  red  as  a  salamander's.  Its 
arms  were  long  and  muscular,  and  its  bony 
hands  were  armed  with  eleven  fingers  each, 
upon  which  were  nails  or  claws  shaped  like 
fish  hooks  and  keen  as  razors.  This  booga 
boo  had  skinny  wings  like  a  huge  bat,  and 
at  the  end  of  its  rat-like  tail  was  a  sting 
more  deadly  than  the  poison  of  a  snake. 
172 


OF   TALES 

These   hideous   reptiles— the   catamaran 
and  the  boogaboo  — stood  glaring  at  Wil- 

helm. 

«  Ow wow  —  wow — wow!"  roared 

the  catamaran;    "I  will   scorch   you  to   a 

cinder." 

<  <  O  w wow  —  wow  —  wow !  "bellowed 

the  boogaboo,  "I  will  tear  your  heart  from 
your  bosom." 

So,  in  the  wise  determination  not  to  die 
until'  he  had  made  a  brave  and  discreet 
struggle  for  the  princess,  Wilhelm  left  the 
castle  and  stole  down  the  highway  towards 
the  city. 

That  night  he  slept  in  a  meadow,  and  the 
stars  watched  over  him  and  the  daisies  and 
buttercups  bent  their  heads  lovingly  above 
him  and  sang  lullabies,  while  he  dreamed  of 
his  mother  and  the  princess,  who  seemed  to 
smile  upon  him  all  that  night. 

In  the  morning,  Wilhelm  pushed  on  to  the 
city,  and  he  went  straight  to  the  palace  gate 
and  demanded  to  see  the  king.  This  was 
no  easy  matter,  but  finally  he  was  admitted 
and  the  king  asked  him  what  he  wanted. 
When  the  king  heard  that  Wilhelm  was 
173 


SECOND    BOOK 

determined  to  make  an  attempt  to  rescue  the 
princess,  he  burst  out  crying  and  embracing 
the  youth,  assured  him  that  it  was  folly  for 
him  — a  simple  country  boy —to  undertake 
to  accomplish  what  so  many  accomplished 
and  skilled  princes  had  essayed  in  vain. 

But   Wilhelm   insisted,  until   at   last   the 
king  called  his  court  together  and  announced 
that  the  simple  country  lad  had  resolved  to 
guess   the   riddles  of  the  old   witch.     The 
courtiers  straightway  fell  to  laughing  at  the 
presumption  of  the  rural  wight,  as  they  de 
risively  called  him,  but  it  was  much  to  the 
credit  of  the  court  ladies  that  they  admired 
the  youth  for  his  comely  person,  ingenuous 
manners,  and  brave  determination.    The  end 
of  it  all  was  that,  at  noon  that  very  day,  a 
long  procession  went  with  Wilhelm  to  the 
witch's  castle,  the  courtiers  hardly  suppress 
ing  their  mirth,  but  the  ladies  all  in  tears  for 
fear  the  handsome  youth  would  not  guess 
the  riddles  and  would  therefore  be  trans 
formed  by  the  witch. 

The  old  witch  saw  the  train  approaching 
her  castle  and  she  went  out  into  the  yard 
and  sat  on  a  rickety  bench  under  a  upas  tree 
'74 


OF  TALES 

to  receive  the  king  and  his  court.  She  was 
attended  by  twelve  snapdragons,  a  score  of 
hobgoblins,  and  innumerable  gnomes,  elves, 
ghouls,  and  hoodoos.  On  her  left  stood  the 
catamaran,  and  on  her  right  the  boogaboo, 
each  more  revoltingly  hideous  than  ever 
before. 

When  the  king  and  Wilhelm  and  the  rest 
of  the  cavalcade  came  into  the  castle  yard 
and  stood  before  the  witch,  she  grinned  and 
showed  her  black  gums  and  demanded  to 
know  why  they  had  come. 

"  We  have  a  youth  here  who  would  solve 
your  three  riddles,"  said  the  king. 

Then  the  old  witch  laughed,  "Ha,  ha, 
ha!"  and  the  gnomes,  ghouls,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  enchantress'  followers  took  up 
the  refrain  and  laughed  till  the  air  was  very 
dense  with  sulphurous  fumes. 

"Well,  if  the  youth  is  resolved,  let  him 
see  the  doom  that  awaits  him,"  said  the 
witch,  and  she  waved  her  stick. 

Forthwith  a  strange  procession  issued  from 
the  castle.  First  came  two  little  imps,  then 
came  two  black  demons,  and  last  of  all  the 
swans,  two  by  two,  mournfully  flapping 

'75 


SECOND   BOOK 

their  wings  and  giving  utterance  to  sighs 
and  moans  more  dismal  than  any  sounds 
ever  before  heard. 

"You  are  going  to  have  a  new  compan 
ion,  my  pretty  pets,"  said  the  old  witch  to 
the  swans,  whereupon  the  swans  moaned 
and  sighed  with  renewed  vigor. 

The  king  and  his  court  trembled  and  wept 
at  the  spectacle,  for  in  these  unhappy  birds 
they  recognized  the  poor  princes  who  had 
fallen  victims  to  the  foul  witch's  arts.  To 
add  to  the  misery  of  the  scene,  the  beautiful 
princess  Mary  appeared  at  the  barred  win 
dow  of  her  chamber  in  the  castle  and 
stretched  out  her  white  arms  beseechingly. 
But  the  king  and  his  court  could  avail  her 
nothing,  for  the  hideous  catamaran  and  the 
cruel  boogaboo  were  prepared  to  pounce 
upon  and  destroy  whosoever  attemped  to 
rescue  the  unhappy  maiden  by  violence. 

"Let  the  presumptuous  youth  stand  be 
fore  me,"  cried  the  witch.  And  Wilhelm 
strode  boldly  to  the  open  spot  between  the 
witch  and  the  kingly  retinue. 

"A  fine,  plump  swan  will  you  make," 
hissed  the  old  witch.     "Now  can  you  tell 
.76 


OF   TALES 

me  what  is  sweeter  than  the  kiss  of  the 
princess'  mother  ?" 

Now  the  witch  had  supposed  that  Wil- 
helm  would  reply  "  The  kiss  of  the  princess 
herself,"  for  this  was  the  reply  that  all  the 
other  youths  had  made.  But  Wilhelm  made 
no  such  answer.  He  faced  the  old  witch 
boldly  and  replied,  "The  kiss  of  my  own 
mother!" 

And  hearing  this,  which  was  the  correct 
answer,  the  witch  quivered  with  astonish 
ment  and  rage,  and  the  catamaran  fell  down 
upon  the  grass  and  vomited  its  flaming 
breath  upon  itself  until  it  was  utterly  con 
sumed.  So  that  was  the  last  of  the  hideous 
catamaran. 

"  Having  said  that,  he  will  not  think  to 
repeat  it,"  thought  the  old  witch,  and  she 
propounded  the  second  question,  which  was : 
"What  always  lieth  next  a  good  man's 
heart?" 

Now  for  a  long  time  Wilhelm  paused  in 
doubt,  and  the  king  and  his  retinue  began 
to  tremble  and  the  poor  swans  dolorously 
flapped  their  wings  and  sighed  more  pit- 
eously.  But  the  old  witch  chuckled  and 
177 


SECOND   BOOK 

licked  her  warty  chops  and  muttered,  "  He 
will  have  feathers  all  over  his  back  pres 
ently." 

And  in  his  doubt  Wilhelm  remembered 
the  words  of  his  dear  mother:  "  Whenever 
in  trouble,  look  at  the  talisman  and  it  will 
preserve  you  from  harm."  So  Wilhelm  put 
his  hand  in  his  bosom  and  drew  forth  the 
talisman,  and  lo!  the  inscription  seemed  to 
burn  itself  into  his  very  soul.  Gently  he 
raised  the  talisman  to  his  lips  and  reverently 
he  kissed  it.  And  then  he  uttered  the  sa 
cred  name,  "  Mother." 

And  straightway  the  hideous  boogaboo 
fell  down  upon  the  grass  and  with  its  cruel 
talons  tore  out  its  own  heart,  so  that  the 
boogaboo  perished  miserably  in  the  sight  of 
all.  The  old  witch  cowered  and  foamed  at 
her  ugly  black  mouth  and  uttered  fearful 
curses  and  imprecations. 

It  was  never  known  what  the  third  and 
last  riddle  was,  for  as  soon  as  they  saw  her 
deprived  of  her  twin  guardians,  the  cata 
maran  and  the  boogaboo,  the  king's  swords 
men  fell  upon  the  witch  and  hewed  off  her 
head,  and  the  head  and  body  tumbled  to  the 
.78 


OF  TALES 

ground.  At  that  very  instant  the  earth 
opened  and,  with  a  sickening  groan,  swal 
lowed  up  the  dead  witch  and  all  her  elves, 
gnomes,  imps,  ghouls,  snapdragons,  and 
demons.  But  the  swans  were  instantane 
ously  transformed  back  into  human  beings, 
for  as  soon  as  the  witch  died,  all  enchant 
ment  over  them  was  at  an  end,  and  there 
was  great  joy. 

The  recovery  of  the  beautiful  princess 
Mary  was  easily  accomplished  now,  and  the 
next  day  she  was  wedded  to  Wilhelm  amid 
great  rejoicing,  the  rescued  princes  serving 
as  the  bridegroom's  best  men.  The  king 
had  it  proclaimed  that  Wilhelm  should  be 
his  successor,  and  there  was  great  rejoicing 
in  all  the  kingdom. 

In  the  midst  of  his  prosperity,  Wilhelm 
did  not  forget  his  dear  old  mother.  He  sent 
for  her  at  once,  and  she  "lived  with  Wilhelm 
and  his  bride  in  the  splendid  palace,  and  she 
was  always  very  particular  to  tell  everybody 
what  a  good,  kind,  and  thoughtful  son  Wil 
helm  had  always  been. 

Dear  little  boys,  God  has  put  into  your 
bosoms  a  talisman  which  will  always  tell 
'79 


SECOND    BOOK   OF   TALES 

you  that  love  of  mother  is  the  sweetest  and 
holiest  of  all  human  things.  Treasure  that 
sacred  talisman,  and  heaven's  blessings  will 
be  always  with  you.  And  then  each  of  you 
shall  marry  a  beautiful  princess,  or  at  least 
one  who  is  every  whit  as  good  as  a  beauti 
ful  princess. 


1 80 


GEORGE'S   BIRTHDAY 


AWRENCE  seemed  to  be  lost  in  medi- 
tation.  He  sat  in  a  rude  arm-chair  un 
der  his  favorite  fig  tree,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  intently  upon  the  road  that  wound 
away  from  the  manor  house,  through  the 
broad  gate,  and  across  the  brown  sward 
until  it  lost  itself  in  the  oak  forest  yonder. 
Had  it  been  summer  the  sight  of  Lawrence 
in  the  arm-chair  under  the  fig  tree  would 
not  have  been  surprising,  but  the  spectacle 
of  Lawrence  occupying  that  seat  in  mid 
winter,  with  his  gaze  riveted  on  the  seat- 
roadway,  was  simply  preposterous,  as  you 
will  all  admit. 

It  was  a  February  morning  —  clear,  bright, 

and  beautiful,  with  a  hint  of  summer  in  the 

warmth  of  its  breath  and   the   cheeriness 

of  its  smile.     Pope's   Creek,  as   it  rippled 

183 


SECOND   BOOK 

along,  made  pleasant  music,  the  partridges 
drummed  in  the  under  brush,  and  the  red- 
birds  whistled  weirdly  in  the  leafless  chest 
nut  grove  near  the  swash.  Now  and  then 
a  Bohemian  crow,  moping  lazily  from  the 
Maryland  border,  looked  down  at  Lawrence 
in  the  old  arm-chair  and  uttered  a  hoarse 
exclamation  of  astonishment. 

But  Lawrence  heard  none  of  these  things; 
with  stony  stare  he  continued  to  regard  the 
roadway  to  the  grove.  Could  it  be  that  he 
was  unhappy  ?  He  was  the  proprietor  of 
"Wakefield,"  the  thirteen  hundred  acres  that 
stretched  around  him ;  five  hundred  slaves 
called  him  master;  bounteous  crops  had 
filled  his  barns  to  overflowing,  and,  to  com 
plete  what  should  have  been  the  sum  of  hu 
man  happiness,  he  had  but  two  years  before 
taken  to  wife  the  beautiful  Mary,  daughter 
of  Joseph  Ball,  Esq.,  of  Epping  Forest,  and 
the  acknowledged  belle  of  the  Northern 
Neck.  How,  then,  could  Lawrence  be  un 
happy? 

The  truth  is,  Lawrence  was  in  a  delirium 
of  expectancy.  He  stood,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  threshold  of  an  event.  The  experience 
184 


OF  TALES 

which  threatened  him  was  altogether  a  new 
one;  he  was  in  a  condition  of  suspense  that 
was  simply  torturesome. 

This  event  had  been  anticipated  for  some 
time.  By  those  subtile  methods  peculiar  to 
her  sex,  Mary,  the  wife,  had  prepared  her 
self  for  it,  and  Lawrence,  too,  had  declared 
ever  and  anon  his  readiness  to  face  the  ordeal ; 
but,  now  that  the  event  was  close  at  hand, 
Lawrence  was  weak  and  nervous  and  pale, 
and  it  was  evident  that  Mary  would  have  to 
confront  the  event  without  the  hope  of  any 
practical  assistance  from  her  husband. 

"  It  is  all  the  fault  of  the  moon,"  muttered 
Lawrence.  "It  changed  last  night,  and  if 
I  had  paid  any  attention  to  what  Aunt  Lizzie 
and  Miss  Bettie  said  I  might  have  expected 
this  trouble  to-day.  A  plague  take  the 
moon,  I  say,  and  all  the  ills  it  brings  with  its 
monkeyshines!" 

******* 

Along  the  pathway  across  the  meadow 
meandered  three  feminine  figures  attired  in 
the  quaint  raiment  of  those  remote  Colonial 
times  —  Mistress  Carter,  her  daughter  Mis 
tress  Fairfax,  and  another  neighbor,  the  an- 
185 


SECOND    BOOK 


tique  and  angular  Miss  Dorcas  Culpeper, 
spinster.  At  sight  of  Lawrence  they  groaned, 
and  Miss  Culpeper  found  it  necessary  to 
hold  her  big  velvet  bag  before  her  face  to 
conceal  the  blushes  of  indignation  which  she 
felt  suffusing  her  venerable  features  when 
she  beheld  the  horrid  author  of  a  kind  of 
trouble  to  which,  on  account  of  her  years 
and  estate,  she  could  never  hope  to  con 
tribute  save  as  a  party  of  the  third  part.  And 
oh!  how  guilty  Lawrence  looked  and  how 
guilty  he  felt,  too,  as  he  sat  under  his  fig 
tree  just  then.  He  dropped  his  face  into  his 
hands  and  ground  his  elbows  into  his  knees 
and  indulged  in  bitter  thoughts  against  the 
feminine  sex  in  general  and  against  the  moon 
and  Miss  Dorcas  Culpeper,  spinster,  in  par 
ticular. 

So  absorbing  were  these  bitter  reflections 
that,  although  Lawrence  had  posted  himself 
under  the  fig  tree  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
discovering  and  of  heralding  the  approach  of 
a  certain  expected  visitor,  he  was  not  aware 
of  Dr.  Farley's  arrival  until  that  important 
personage  had  issued  from  the  oak  grove, 
had  traversed  the  brown  road,  and  was  dig- 
186 


OF   TALES 

nifiedly  stalking  his  flea-bitten  mare  through 
the  gateway.  Then  Lawrence  looked  up, 
gave  a  sickly  smile,  and  bade  the  doctor  an 
incoherent  good-morning.  Dr.  Farley  was 
sombre  and  impressive.  He  seldom  smiled. 
An  imperturbable  gravity  possessed  him  from 
the  prim  black-satin  cockade  on  his  three- 
cornered  hat  to  the  silver  buckles  on  his 
square-toed  shoes.  In  his  right  hand  he 
carried  a  gold-headed  cane  which  he  wielded 
as  solemnly  as  a  pontiff  might  wield  a  scep 
tre,  and  as  he  dismounted  from  his  flea-bitten 
mare  and  unswung  his  ponderous  saddle 
bags  he  never  once  suffered  the  gold  head 
of  his  impressive  cane  to  lapse  from  its  ac 
customed  position  at  his  nostrils. 

"Go  right  into  the  house,  doctor,"  said 
Lawrence,  feebly,  "/  'II  look  after  the  mare. 
You  have  n't  come  any  too  soon  —  Mary  's 
taking  on  terrible." 

It  was  mean  of  Dr.  Farley,  but  at  this 
juncture  he  did  really  smile—  yes,  and  it  was 
a  smile  which  combined  so  much  malevolent 
pity  and  scorn  and  derision  that  poor  Law 
rence  felt  himself  shrivelling  up  to  the  infini 
tesimal  dimension  of  a  pea  in  a  bushel- 
187 


SECOND   BOOK 

basket.  He  led  the  flea-bitten  mare  to  the 
cherry  tree  and  tied  her  there.  "If  you 
bark  that  tree  I  '11  tan  you  alive,"  said  Law 
rence  hoarsely,  to  the  champing,  frisky  crea 
ture,  for  now  he  hated  all  animal  life  from  Dr. 
Farley  down,  down,  down  even  to  the  flea- 
bitten  mare.  Then,  miserable  and  nervous, 
Lawrence  returned  to  the  arm-chair  under 
the  fig  tree  —  and,  how  wretched  he  was! 

Pretty  soon  he  heard  a  merry  treble  voice 
piping  out : ' '  Is  ze  gockter  turn  to  oo  house  ? " 
and  Lawrence  saw  little  Martha  toddling  to 
ward  him.  Little  Martha  was  Mistress  Dan^ 
dridge's  baby  girl.  The  Dandridges  lived  a 
short  way  beyond  the  oak  grove,  and  little 
Martha  loved  to  visit  Uncle  Lawrence  and 
Aunt  Mary,  as  she  called  Lawrence  and  his 
wife. 

"Yes,  Martha,"  said  Lawrence,  sadly, 
"the  doctor's  come." 

' '  Ain't  oo  glad  ze  gockter  s  turn  ?  "  asked 
the  child,  anxiously,  for  she  recognized  the 
weary  tone  of  Lawrence's  voice. 

"Oh,    yes,"   he  answered,    quickly  and 
with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness,  "  I  'm  glad 
he  's  come.     Ha,  ha!  " 
188 


OF  TALES 

"Is  oo  doing  to  have  oo  toof  pulled?" 
she  inquired,  artlessly. 

Lawrence  shook  his  head. 

"No,  little  one,"  said  he,  in  a  melancholy 
voice,  "  I  wish  I  was." 

Then  Martha  wanted  to  know  whether 
the  doctor  had  brought  his  saddlebags,  and 
when  Lawrence  answered  in  the  affirmative 
a  summer  of  sunshine  seemed  to  come  into 
the  child's  heart  and  burst  out  over  her  pretty 
face. 

"  Oh,  I  know !  "  she  cried,  as  she  clapped 
her  fat  little  hands.  ' '  Ze  gockter  has  b wought 
oo  a  itty  baby !  " 

Now  Martha's  innocence,  naivete,  and 
exuberance  rather  pleased  Lawrence.  In 
fact,  Martha  was  the  only  human  being  in 
all  the  world  who  had  treated  Lawrence 
with  any  kind  of  consideration  that  Febru 
ary  morning,  and  all  at  once  Lawrence  felt 
his  heart  warm  and  go  out  toward  the  prat 
tling  child. 

"Come  here,  little  Martha,"  said  he,  kind 
ly,  "and   let  me   hold   you   on  my  knee. 
Who  told  you  about  the  —  about  the  —  the 
baby,  eh  ?  " 

189 


SECOND    BOOK 

"Mamma  says  ze  gockter  alters  brings 
itty  babies  in  his  sagglebags.  Do  oo  want 
a  itty  baby,  Uncle  Lawrence  ?  " 

"Yes,  Martha,  I  do,"  said  he,  kissing  her, 
"  and  1  want  a  little  girl  just  like  you." 

Now  Martha  had  guessed  at  the  event, 
and  her  guess  was  eminently  correct.  Law 
rence  had  told  the  truth,  too;  it  was  a  little 
girl  he  wanted — not  one  that  looked  like 
Martha,  perhaps  —  one  that  looked  like  his 
Mary  would  please  him  most.  So  the  two 
talked  together,  and  Lawrence  found  himself 
concocting  the  most  preposterous  perjuries 
touching  the  famous  saddlebags  and  the  ba 
bies,  but  it  seemed  to  delight  little  Martha  all 
the  more  as  these  perjuries  became  more  and 
more  preposterous. 

For  reasons,  however,  which  we  at  this 
subsequent  period  can  appreciate,  this  con 
fabulation  could  not  last  for  aye,  and  when, 
finally,  little  Martha  trotted  back  homeward 
Lawrence  bethought  himself  it  was  high 
time  to  reconnoiter  the  immediate  scene  of 
action  within  his  house.  He  found  a  group 
of  servants  huddled  about  the  door.  Chloe, 
Becky,  Ann,  Snowdrop,  Pearl,  Susan,  Tilly 
190 


OF  TALES 

—all,  usually  cheerful  and  smiling,  wore 
distressful  countenances  now.  Nor  did  they 
speak  to  him  as  had  been  their  wont.  They 
seemed  to  be  afraid  of  him,  yet  what  \\i\dbe 
done — what  had  he  ever  done  that  these 
well-fed,  well-treated  slaves  should  shrink 
from  him  in  his  hour  of  trouble  ? 

It  was  still  gloomier  inside  the  house. 
Aunt  Lizzie  and  Miss  Bettie,  the  nurses,  had 
taken  supreme  charge  of  affairs.  At  this 
moment  Aunt  Lizzie,  having  brewed  a  pot 
of  tea,  was  regaling  Mistress  Carter  and  Mis 
tress  Fairfax  and  the  venerable  Miss  Dorcas 
Culpeper,  spinster,  with  a  desultory  but 
none  the  less  interesting  narrative  of  her  per 
formances  on  countless  occasions  similar 
to  the  event  about  to  take  place.  The  ap 
pearance  of  Lawrence  well-nigh  threw  Miss 
Culpeper  into  hysterics,  and,  to  escape  the 
dismal  groans,  prodigious  sighs,  and  re 
proachful  glances  of  the  others,  Lawrence 
made  haste  to  get  out  of  the  apartment.  The 
next  room  was  desolate  enough,  but  it  was 
under  Mary's  room  and  there  was  some  com 
fort  in  knowing  that.  Yet  the  nearer  Law 
rence  came  to  Mary's  room  the  more  helpless 
191 


SECOND   BOOK 

he  grew.  He  could  not  explain  it,  but  he  was 
lamentably  weak  and  miserable.  A  strange 
fear  undid  him  and  he  fairly  trembled. 

"  I  will  go  up  and  ask  if  there  is  anything 
1  can  do,"  he  said  to  himself,  for  he  was 
ashamed  to  admit  his  cowardice. 

But  his  knees  failed  him  and  he  sat  down 
on  the  stairs  and  listened  and  wished  he  had 
never  been  born. 

Oh,  how  quiet  the  house  was.  Lawrence 
strained  his  ears  to  catch  a  sound  from 
Mary's  room.  He  could  hear  a  faint  echo  of 
the  four  chattering  women  in  the  front 
chamber  below,  but  not  a  sound  from  Mary's 
room.  Now  and  then  a  shrill  cry  of  a  jay 
or  the  lowing  of  the  oxen  in  the  pasture  by 
the  creek  came  to  him  from  the  outside 
world  —  but  not  a  sound  from  Mary's  room. 
His  heart  sank;  he  would  have  given  the 
finest  plantation  in  Westmoreland  County 
for  the  echo  of  Mary's  voice  or  the  music  of 
Mary's  footfall  now. 

Presently  the  door  of  Mary's  room  opened. 
The  cold,  unrelenting,  forbidding  counte 
nance  of  Miss  Bettie,  the  nurse,  confronted 
Lawrence's  upturned,  pleading  face. 
192 


OF  TALES 

"Oh,  it  's  you,  is  it?"  said  Miss  Bettie, 
unfeelingly,  and  with  this  cheerless  remark 
she  closed  the  door  again,  and  Lawrence 
was  more  miserable  than  ever.  He  stole 
down-stairs  into  a  back  room,  escaped 
through  a  window,  and  slunk  away  toward 
the  stables.  The  whole  world  seemed 
turned  against  him  —  in  the  flower  of  early 
manhood  he  found  himself  unwillingly  and 
undeservedly  an  Ishmaelite. 

He  rebelled  against  this  cruel  injustice. 

Then  he  grew  weak  and  childish  again. 

Anon  he  anathematized  humanity,  and 
then  again  he  ruefully  regretted  his  own  ex 
istence. 

In  a  raging  fever  one  moment,  he  shivered 
and  chattered  like  a  sick  magpie  the  next. 

But  when  he  thought  of  Mary  his  heart 
softened  and  sweeter  emotions  thrilled  him. 
She,  at  least,  he  assured  himself,  would  de 
fend  him  from  these  persecutions  were  she 
aware  of  them.  So,  after  roaming  aimlessly 
between  the  barn  and  the  creek,  the  creek 
and  the  overseer's  house,  the  overseer's 
house  and  the  swash,  the  swash  and  the 
grove,  the  grove  and  the  servants'  quarters, 
«93 


SECOND    BOOK 

Lawrence  made  up  his  mind  that  he  'd  go 
back  to  the  house  (like  the  brave  man  he 
wanted  to  make  himself  believe  he  was)  and 
help  Mary  endure  "the  ordeal,"  as  Miss 
Dorcas  Culpeper,  spinster,  was  pleased  to 
term  the  evert.  But  Lawrence  could  not 
bring  himself  to  face  the  feminine  quartet  in 
the  front  chamber  —  now  that  he  came  to 
think  of  it  he  recollected  that  he  always  bad 
detested  those  four  impertinent  gossips!  So 
he  crept  around  to  the  side  window,  raised 
it  softly,  crawled  in  through,  and  slipped 
noiselessly  toward  the  stairway. 

Then  all  at  once  he  heard  a  cry;  a  shrill 
little  voice  that  did  not  linger  in  his  ears, 
but  went  straight  to  his  heart  and  kept 
echoing  there  and  twining  itself  in  and  out, 
in  and  out,  over  and  over  again. 

This  little  voice  stirred  Lawrence  strangely ; 
it  seemed  to  tell  him  things  he  had  never 
known  before,  to  speak  a  wisdom  he  had 
never  dreamed  of,  to  breathe  a  sweeter  music 
than  he  had  ever  heard,  to  inspire  ambitions 
purer  and  better  than  any  he  had  ever  felt  — 
the  voice  of  his  firstborn  — you  know, 
fathers,  what  that  meant  to  Lawrence. 
194 


OF  TALES 

Well,  Lawrence  WLIS  brave  again,  but 
there  was  a  lump  in  his  throat  and  his  eyes 
were  misty. 

"  She  's  here  at  last,"  he  murmured  thank 
fully ;  "heaven  be  praised  for  that!  " 

Of  course  you  understand  that  Lawrence 
had  been  hoping  for  a  girl ;  so  had  his  wife. 
They  had  planned  to  call  her  Mary,  after  her 
mother,  the  quondam  belle  of  the  Northern 
Neck.  Grandfather  Joseph  Ball,  late  of  Ep- 
ping  Forest,  was  to  be  her  godfather,  and 
Colonel  Bradford  Custis  of  Jamestown  had 
promised  to  grace  the  christening  with  his 
imposing  presence. 

"  Well,  you  can  come  in,"  said  Miss  Bet- 
tie,  with  much  condescension,  and  in  all 
humility  Lawrence  did  go  in. 

Dr.  Farley  was  quite  as  solemn  and  im 
pressive  as  ever.  He  occupied  the  great 
chair  near  the  chimney-place,  and  he  still 
held  the  gold  head  of  his  everlasting  cane 
close  to  his  nose. 

"Well,  Mary,"  said  Lawrence,  with  an 
inquiring,  yearning  glance.  Mary  was  very 
pale,  but  she  smiled  sweetly. 

"  Lawrence,  it 's  a  boy,"  said  Mary. 

195 


SECOND   BOOK 

Oh,  what  a  grievous  disappointment  that 
was !  After  all  the  hopes,  the  talk,  the  prep 
arations,  the  plans  —  a  boy!  What  would 
Grandfather  Ball,  late  of  Epping  Forest,  say  ? 
What  would  come  of  the  grand  christening 
that  was  to  be  graced  by  the  imposing  pres 
ence  of  Colonel  Bradford  Custis  of  James 
town  ?  How  the  JefTersons  and  Randolphs 
and  Masons  and  Pages  and  Slaughters  and 
Carters  and  Ayletts  and  Henrys  would  gossip 
and  chuckle,  and  how  he  —  Lawrence  — 
would  be  held  up  to  the  scorn  and  the  derision 
of  the  facetious  yeomen  of  Westmoreland! 
It  was  simply  terrible. 

And  just  then,  too,  Lawrence's  vexation 
was  increased  by  a  gloomy  report  from  the 
four  worthy  dames  down-stairs  —  viz.,  Mis 
tress  Carter,  Mistress  Fairfax,  Miss  Dorcas 
Culpeper,  spinster,  and  Aunt  Lizzie,  the 
nurse.  These  inquiring  creatures  had  been 
casting  the  new-born  babe's  horoscope 
through  the  medium  of  tea  grounds  in  their 
blue-china  cups,  and  each  agreed  that  the 
child's  future  was  full  of  shame,  crime,  dis 
grace,  and  other  equally  unpleasant  features. 

"Now  that  it 's  a  boy,"  said  Lawrence, 
196 


OF  TALES 

ruefully,  "I  'm  willing  to  believe  almost 
anything.  It  would  n't  surprise  me  at  all  if 
he  wound  up  on  the  gallows! " 

But  Mary,  cherishing  the  puffy,  fuzzy,  red- 
faced  little  waif  in  her  bosom,  said  to  him, 
softly:  "No  matter  what  the  others  say, 
my  darling;  /  bid  you  welcome,  and,  by 
God's  grace,  my  love  and  prayers  shall  make 
you  good  and  great." 

And  it  was  even  so.  Mary's  love  and 
prayers  did  make  a  good  and  great  man  of 
that  unwelcome  child,  as  we  who  celebrate 
his  birthday  in  these  later  years  believe.  They 
had  a  grand  christening,  too;  Grandfather  Ball 
was  there,  and  Colonel  Bradford  Custis,  and 
the  Lees,  the  Jeffersons,  the  Randolphs,  the 
Slaughters  — yes,  all  the  old  families  of  Vir 
ginia  were  represented,  and  there  was  feast 
ing  and  merry-making  for  three  days !  Such 
cheer  prevailed,  in  fact,  that  even  Miss  Dor 
cas  Culpeper,  spinster,  and  Lawrence,  the 
happy  father,  became  completely  reconciled. 
Soothed  by  the  grateful  influences  of  barbe 
cued  meats  and  draughts  of  rum  and  sugar, 
Lawrence  led  Miss  Culpeper  through  the 
minuet. 

197 


SECOND    BOOK   OF   TALES 

"  A  very  proper  name  for  the  babe  ?  "  sug 
gested  Miss  Culpeper. 

"Yes,  we  will  call  him  George,  in  honor 
of  his  majesty  our  king,"  said  Lawrence 
Washington,  with  the  pride  that  comes  of 
loyalty  and  patriotism. 


198 


mg  anb  tfje 


SWEET-ONE-DARLING   AND  THE 
DREAM-FAIRIES 


A  WONDERFUL  thing  happened  one 
night;  those  who  never  heard  of  it  be 
fore  will  hardly  believe  it.  Sweet-One-Dar 
ling  was  lying  in  her  little  cradle  with  her 
eyes  wide  open,  and  she  was  trying  to  make 
up  her  mind  whether  she  should  go  to  sleep 
or  keep  awake.  This  is  often  a  hard  matter 
for  little  people  to  determine.  Sweet-One- 
Darling  was  ready  for  sleep  and  dreams;  she 
had  on  her  nightgown  and  her  nightcap, 
and  her  mother  had  kissed  her  good-night. 
But  the  day  had  been  so  very  pleasant,  with 
its  sunshine  and  its  play  and  its  many  other 
diversions,  that  Sweet-One-Darling  was 
quite  unwilling  to  give  it  up.  It  was  high 
time  for  the  little  girl  to  be  asleep;  the  robins 
had  ceased  their  evening  song  in  the  maple; 
a  tree-toad  croaked  monotonously  outside, 


SECOND   BOOK 

and  a  cricket  was  chirping  certain  confi 
dences  to  the  strange  shadows  that  crept 
furtively  everywhere  in  the  yard  and  garden. 
Some  folk  believe  that  the  cricket  is  in  league 
with  the  Dream -Fairies;  they  say  that  what 
sounds  to  us  like  a  faint  chirping  merely  is 
actually  the  call  of  the  cricket  to  the  Dream- 
Fairies  to  let  those  pretty  little  creatures 
know  that  it  is  time  for  them  to  come  with 
their  dreams.  I  more  than  half  believe  this 
myself,  for  I  have  noticed  that  it  is  while  the 
cricket  is  chirping  that  the  Dream-Fairies 
come  with  their  wonderful  sights  that  seem 
oftentimes  very  real. 

Sweet-One-Darling  heard  the  voice  of  the 
cricket,  and  may  be  she  knew  what  it 
meant.  There  are  a  great  many  things  which 
Sweet-One-Darling  knows  all  about  but  of 
which  she  says  nothing  to  other  people;  al 
though  she  is  only  a  year  old,  she  is  un 
doubtedly  the  most  knowing  little  person  in 
all  the  world,  and  the  fact  that  she  is  the 
most  beautiful  and  the  most  amiable  of  hu 
man  beings  is  the  reason  why  she  is  called 
by  that  name  of  Sweet-One-Darling.  May 
be  —  and  it  is  quite  likely  that  —  with  all  the 

202 


OF  TALES 

other  wonderful  things  she  knew,  Sweet- 
One-Darling  understood  about  the  arrange 
ment  that  existed  between  the  cricket  and 
the  Dream-Fairies.  At  any  rate,  just  as  soon 
as  she  heard  that  cricket  give  its  signal  note 
she  smiled  a  smile  of  gratification  and  looked 
very  wise,  indeed — as  much  as  to  say: 
"The  cricket  and  I  know  a  thing  worth 
knowing." 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  there  was  a  faint 
sound  as  of  the  rustle  of  gossamer,  silken 
wings,  and  the  very  next  moment  two  of 
the  cunningest  fairies  you  ever  saw  were 
standing  upon  the  window-sill,  just  over  the 
honeysuckle.  They  had  come  from  Some 
where,  and  it  was  evident  that  they  were 
searching  for  somebody,  for  they  peered  cau 
tiously  and  eagerly  into  the  room.  One 
was  dressed  in  a  bright  yellow  suit  of  but 
terfly  silk  and  the  other  wore  a  suit  of  dark- 
gray  mothzine,  which  (as  perhaps  you  know) 
is  a  dainty  fabric  made  of  the  fine  strands 
which  gray  moths  spin.  Each  of  these  fair 
ies  was  of  the  height  of  a  small  cambric 
needle  and  both  together  would  not  have 
weighed  much  more  than  the  one-sixteenth 
203 


SECOND    BOOK 

part  of  four  dewdrops.  You  will  under 
stand  from  this  that  these  fairies  were  as 
tiny  creatures  as  could  well  be  imagined. 

" Sweet-One-Darling!  oh,  Sweet-One- 
Darling!"  they  cried  softly.  "Where  are 
you  ?  " 

Sweet-One-Darling  pretended  that  she 
did  not  hear,  and  she  cuddled  down  close  in 
her  cradle  and  laughed  heartily,  all  to  her 
self.  The  mischievous  little  thing  knew 
well  enough  whom  they  were  calling,  and  1 
am  sure  she  knew  what  they  wanted.  But 
she  meant  to  fool  them  and  hide  from  them 
awhile  —  that  is  why  she  did  not  answer. 
But  nobody  can  hide  from  the  Dream-Fair 
ies,  and  least  of  all  could  Sweet-One-Darling 
hide  from  them,  for  presently  her  laughter 
betrayed  her  and  the  two  Dream-Fairies 
perched  on  her  cradle  —  one  at  each  side  — 
and  looked  smilingly  down  upon  her. 

"Hullo!"  said  Sweet-One-Darling,  for 
she  saw  that  her  hiding-place  was  discov 
ered.  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
heard  her  speak,  and  I  did  not  know  till  then 
that  even  wee  little  babies  talk  with  fairies, 
particularly  Dream-Fairies. 
204 


OF  TALES 

'  'Hullo,  Sweet-One-Darling ! "  said  Gleam- 
o'-the-Murk,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the 
Dream-Fairy  in  the  dark-gray  mothzine. 

"And  hullo  from  me,  too!"  cried  Frisk- 
and-Glitter,  the  other  visitor  —  the  one  in  the 
butterfly-silk  suit. 

"  You  have  come  earlier  than  usual,"  sug 
gested  Sweet-One-Darling. 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  Frisk-and-Glit- 
ter;  "this  is  the  accustomed  hour,  but  the 
day  has  been  so  happy  that  it  has  passed 
quickly.  For  that  reason  you  should  be  glad 
to  see  me,  for  I  bring  dreams  of  the  day  — 
the  beautiful  golden  day,  with  its  benedic 
tion  of  sunlight,  its  grace  of  warmth,  and  its 
wealth  of  mirth  and  play." 

"And  /,"  said  Gleam-o'-the-Murk,  "/ 
bring  dreams,  too.  But  my  dreams  are  of 
the  night,  and  they  are  full  of  the  gentle, 
soothing  music  of  the  winds,  of  the  pines, 
and  of  the  crickets!  and  they  are  full  of  fair 
visions  in  which  you  shall  see  the  things  of 
Fairyland  and  of  Dreamland  and  of  all  the 
mysterious  countries  that  compose  the  vast 
world  of  Somewhere  away  out  beyond  the 
silvery  mist  of  Night." 
205 


SECOND   BOOK 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Sweet-One-Darling. 
"I  should  never  be  able  to  make  a  choice 
between  you  two,  for  both  of  you  are  equally 
acceptable.  I  am  sure  I  should  love  to  have 
the  pleasant  play  of  the  daytime  brought 
back  to  me,  and  I  am  quite  as  sure  that  I 
want  to  see  all  the  pretty  sights  that  are  un 
folded  by  the  dreams  which  Gleam-o'-the- 
Murk  brings." 

Sweet-One-Darling  was  so  distressed  that 
her  cunning  little  underlip  drooped  and  quiv 
ered  perceptibly.  She  feared  that  her  inde 
cision  would  forfeit  her  the  friendship  of 
both  the  Dream-Fairies. 

"  You  have  no  need  to  feel  troubled,"  said 
Frisk-and-Glitter,  "for  you  are  not  expected 
to  make  any  choice  between  us.  We  have 
our  own  way  of  determining  the  question, 
as  you  shall  presently  understand." 

Then  the  Dream-Fairies  explained  that 
whenever  they  came  of  an  evening  to  bring 
their  dreams  to  a  little  child  they  seated 
themselves  on  the  child's  eyelids  and  tried 
to  rock  them  down.  Gleam-o'-the-Murk 
would  sit  and  rock  upon  one  eyelid  and 
Frisk-and-Glitter  would  sit  and  rock  on  the 
206 


OF  TALES 

other.  If  Gleam-o'-the-Murk's  eyelid  closed 
first  the  child  would  dream  the  dreams 
Gleam-o'-the-Murk  brought  it;  if  Frisk-and- 
Glitter's  eyelid  closed  first,  why,  then,  of 
course,  the  child  dreamt  the  dreams  Frisk- 
and-Glitter  brought.  It  would  be  hard  to 
conceive  of  an  arrangement  more  amicable. 

"  But  suppose,"  suggested  Sweet-One- 
Darling,  "  suppose  both  eyelids  close  at  the 
same  instant?  Which  one  of  you  fairies 
has  his  own  way,  then  ?  " 

"  Ah,  in  that  event,"  said  they,  "  neither 
of  us  wins,  and,  since  neither  wins,  the 
sleeper  does  not  dream  at  all,  but  awakes 
next  morning  from  a  sound,  dreamless,  re 
freshing  sleep." 

Sweet-One-Darling  was  not  sure  that  she 
fancied  this  alternative,  but  of  course  she 
could  not  help  herself.  So  she  let  the  two 
little  Dream-Fairies  flutter  across  her  shoul 
ders  and  clamber  up  her  cheeks  to  their 
proper  places  upon  her  eyelids.  Gracious! 
but  how  heavy  they  seemed  when  they 
once  stood  on  her  eyelids!  As  I  told  you 
before  their  actual  combined  weight  hardly 
exceeded  the  sixteenth  part  of  four  dew- 
207 


SECOND   BOOK 

drops,  yet  when  they  are  perched  on  a  little 
child's  eyelids  (tired  eyelids  at  that)  it  really 
seems  sometimes  as  if  they  weighed  a  ton ! 
It  was  just  all  she  could  do  to  keep  her  eye 
lids  open,  yet  Sweet-One-Darling  was  de 
termined  to  be  strictly  neutral.  She  loved 
both  the  Dream-Fairies  equally  well,  and  she 
would  not  for  all  the  world  have  shown 
either  one  any  partiality. 

Well,  there  the  two  Dream-Fairies  sat  on 
Sweet-One-Darling's  eyelids,  each  one  try 
ing  to  rock  his  particular  eyelid  down;  and 
each  one  sung  his  little  lullaby  in  the  piping- 
est  voice  imaginable.  I  am  not  positive, 
but  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember  Frisk-and- 
Glitter's  song  ran  in  this  wise: 

Dream,  dream,  dream 

Of  meadow,  wood,  and  stream; 

Of  bird  and  bee, 

Of  flower  and  tree, 
All  under  the  noonday  gleam; 

Of  the  song  and  play 

Of  mirthful  day  — 
Dream,  dream,  dream! 

This  was  very  soothing,  as  you  would 
suppose.  While  Frisk-and-Glitter  sung  it 

208 


OF  TALES 

Sweet-One-Darling's  eyelid  drooped  and 
drooped  and  drooped  until,  goodness  me! 
it  seemed  actually  closed.  But  at  the  criti 
cal  moment,  the  other  Dream-Fairy,  Gleam- 
o'-the-Murk,  would  pipe  up  his  song  some 
what  in  this  fashion : 

Dream,  dream,  dream 

Of  glamour,  glint,  and  gleam; 

Of  the  hushaby  things 

The  night  wind  sings 
To  the  moon  and  the  stars  abeam; 

Of  whimsical  sights 

In  the  land  o'  sprites 
Dream,  dream,  dream! 

Under  the  spell  of  this  pretty  lullaby,  the 
other  eyelid  would  speedily  overtake  the 
first  and  so  for  a  goodly  time  there  was  act 
ually  no  such  thing  even  as  guessing  which 
of  those  two  eyelids  would  close  sooner 
than  the  other.  It  was  the  most  exciting 
contest  (for  an  amicable  one)  I  ever  saw.  As 
for  Sweet-One-Darling,  she  seemed  to  be 
lost  presently  in  the  magic  of  the  Dream- 
Fairies,  and  although  she  has  never  said  a 
word  about  it  to  me  I  am  quite  sure  that, 
while  her  dear  eyelids  drooped  and  drooped 
209 


SECOND   BOOK 

and  drooped  to  the  rocking  and  the  singing 
of  the  Dream-Fairies,  it  was  her  lot  to  enjoy 
a  confusion  of  all  those  precious  things 
promised  by  her  two  fairy  visitors.  Yes,  I 
am  sure  that  from  under  her  drooping  eye 
lids  she  beheld  the  scenes  of  the  mirthful 
day  intermingled  with  peeps  of  fairyland, 
and  that  she  heard  (or  seemed  to  hear)  the 
music  of  dreamland  harmonizing  with  the 
more  familiar  sounds  of  this  world  of  ours. 
And  when  at  last  she  was  fast  asleep  I  could 
not  say  for  certain  which  of  her  eyelids  had 
closed  first,  so  simultaneous  was  the  down 
fall  of  her  long  dark  lashes  upon  her  flushed 
cheeks.  I  meant  to  have  asked  the  Dream- 
Fairies  about  it,  but  before  I  could  do  so 
they  whisked  out  of  the  window  and  away 
with  their  dreams  to  a  very  sleepy  little  boy 
who  was  waiting  for  them  somewhere  in 
the  neighborhood.  So  you  see  I  am  unable 
to  tell  you  which  of  the  Dream-Fairies  won; 
maybe  neither  did;  may  be  Sweet-One- 
Darling's  sleep  that  night  was  dreamless.  I 
have  questioned  her  about  it  and  she  will 
not  answer  me. 

This  is  all  of  the  wonderful  tale  I  had  to  tell. 


210 


OF  TALES 

May  be  it  will  not  seem  so  wonderful  to  you, 
for  perhaps  you,  too,  have  felt  the  Dream- 
Fairies  rocking  your  eyelids  down  with  gen 
tle  lullaby  music;  perhaps  you,  too,  know 
all  the  precious  dreams  they  bring.  In  that 
case  you  will  bear  witness  that  my  tale,  even 
though  it  be  not  wonderful,  is  strictly  true. 


311 


anfc 


SWEET-ONE-DARLING  AND  THE 
MOON-GARDEN 


ONE  time  Sweet-One-Darling  heard  her 
brother,  little  Our-Golden-Son,  talk 
ing  with  the  nurse.  The  nurse  was  a  very 
wise  woman  and  they  called  her  Good-Old- 
Soul,  because  she  was  so  kind  to  children. 
Little  Our-Golden-Son  was  very  knowing 
for  a  little  boy  only  two  years  old,  but  there 
were  several  things  he  did  not  know  about 
and  one  of  these  things  troubled  him  a  good 
deal  and  he  went  to  the  wise  nurse  to  find 
out  all  about  it. 

"Tell   me,   Good-  Old  -  Soul,"    said    he, 
"  where  did  I  come  from  ?" 

Good-Old-Soul  thought  this  a  very  natural 
question  for  little  Our-Golden-Son  to  ask, 
for  he  was  a  precocious  boy  and  was  going 
to  be  a  great  man  some  time. 
215 


SECOND   BOOK 

"I  asked  your  mother  that  very  question 
the  other  day,"  said  Good-Old-Soul,  "and 
what  do  you  think  she  told  me  ?  She  told 
me  that  the  Doctor-Man  brought  you!  She 
told  me  that  one  night  she  was  wishing  all 
to  herself  that  she  had  a  little  boy  with  light 
golden  hair  and  dark  golden  eyes.  '  If  I  had 
such  a  little  boy,' said  she,  'I  should  call 
him  Our-Golden-Son. '  While  she  was  talk 
ing  this  way  to  herself,  rap-tap-rap  came  a 
knock  at  the  door.  '  Who  is  there  ? '  asked 
your  mother.  '  I  am  the  Doctor-Man,'  said 
the  person  outside,  '  and  I  have  brought 
something  for  you.'  Then  the  Doctor-Man 
came  in  and  he  carried  a  box  in  one  hand.  '  I 
wonder  what  can  be  in  the  box!'  thought 
your  mother.  Now  what  do  you  suppose 
it  was  ?" 

"  Bananas  ?  "  said  little  Our-Golden-Son. 

"No,  no,"  answered  Good-Old-Soul,  "it 
was  nothing  to  eat;  it  was  the  cutest,  pret 
tiest  little  baby  boy  you  ever  saw!  Oh, 
how  glad  your  mother  was,  and  what  made 
her  particularly  happy  was  this:  The  little 
baby  boy  had  light  golden  hair  and  dark 
golden  eyes!  'Did  you  really  bring  this 
216 


OF  TALES 

precious  little  boy  for  me  ?'  asked  your  mo 
ther.  'Indeed  I  did/  said  the  Doctor-Man, 
and  he  lifted  the  little  creature  out  of  the 
box  and  laid  him  very  tenderly  in  your  mo 
ther's  arms.  That  's  how  you  came,  little 
Our-Golden-Son,  and  it  was  very  good  of  the 
Doctor-Man  to  bring  you,  was  n't  it?  " 

Little  Our-Golden-Son  was  much  pleased 
with  this  explanation.  As  for  Sweet-One- 
Darling,  she  was  hardly  satisfied  with  what 
the  nurse  had  told.  So  that  night  when  the 
fairies  —  the  Dream-Fairies  —  came,  she  re 
peated  the  nurse's  words  to  them. 

1 '  What  /  want  to  know, "  said  Sweet-One- 
Darling,  "is  this:  Where  did  the  Doctor- 
Man  get  little  Our-Golden  Son  ?  I  don't 
doubt  the  truth  of  what  Good-Old-Soul  says, 
but  Good-Old-Soul  does  n't  tell  how  the 
Doctor-Man  came  to  have  little  Our-Golden- 
Son  in  the  box.  How  did  little  Our-Golden- 
Son  happen  to  be  in  the  box  ?  Where  did 
he  come  from  before  he  got  into  the  box  ?  " 

"That  is  easy  enough  to  answer,"  said 

Gleam-o'-the-Murk.     "We    Dream-Fairies 

know  all  about  it.     Before  he  got  into  the 

Doctor- Man's  box  little  Our-Golden-Son 

217 


SECOND    BOOK 

lived  in  the  Moon.  That  's  where  all  little 
babies  live  before  the  Doctor-Man  brings 
them." 

"Did  I  live  there  before  the  Doctor-Man 
brought  me  ?  "  asked  Sweet-One-Darling. 

"  Of  course  you  did,"  said  Gleam-o'-the- 
Murk.  "I  saw  you  there  a  long,  long  time 
before  the  Doctor-Man  brought  you." 

"  But  I  thought  that  the  Moon  was  a  big, 
round  soda-cracker,"  said  Sweet-One-Dar 
ling. 

That  made  the  Dream-Fairies  laugh.  They 
assured  Sweet-One-Darling  that  the  Moon 
was  not  a  soda-cracker,  but  a  beautiful  round 
piece  of  silver  way,  way  up  in  the  sky,  and 
that  the  stars  were  little  Moons,  bearing 
the  same  relationship  (in  point  of  size)  to  the 
old  mother  Moon  that  a  dime  does  to  a  big 
silver  dollar. 

"And  how  big  is  the  Moon?"  asked 
Sweet-One-Darling.  "Is  it  as  big  as  this 
room  ?" 

"Oh,  very,  very  much  bigger,"  said  the 
Dream-Fairies. 

"  I  guess  it  must  be  as  big  as  a  house," 
suggested  Sweet-One-Darling. 
218 


OF   TALES 

"  Bigger  than  a  house,"  answered  Gleam- 
o'-the-Murk. 

"Oh,  my!"  exclaimed  Sweet-One-Dar 
ling,  and  she  began  to  suspect  that  the 
Dream-Fairies  were  fooling  her. 

But  that  night  the  Dream-Fairies  took 
Sweet-One-Darling  with  them  to  the  Moon ! 
You  don't  believe  it,  eh  ?  Well,  you  wait 
until  you  've  heard  all  about  it,  and  then, 
may  be,  you  not  only  will  believe  it,  but 
will  want  to  go  there,  too. 

The  Dream-Fairies  lifted  Sweet-One-Dar 
ling  carefully  out  of  her  cradle;  then  their 
wings  went  "  whir-r-r,  whir-r-r"  -you've 
heard  a  green  fly  buzzing  against  a  window- 
pane,  have  n't  you  ?  That  was  the  kind  of 
whirring  noise  the  Dream-Fairies'  wings 
made,  with  the  pleasing  difference  that  the 
Dream-Fairies' wings  produced  a  soft,  sooth 
ing  music.  The  cricket  under  the  honey 
suckle  by  the  window  heard  this  music  and 
saw  the  Dream-Fairies  carrying  Sweet-One- 
Darling  away.  "  Be  sure  to  bring  her  back 
again,"  said  the  cricket,  for  he  was  a  soci 
able  little  fellow  and  was  very  fond  of  little 
children. 

219 


SECOND    BOOK 

You  can  depend  upon  it  that  Sweet-One- 
Darling  had  a  delightful  time  riding  through 
the  cool  night  air  in  the  arms  of  those  Dream- 
Fairies;  it  was  a  good  deal  like  being  a  bird, 
only  the  Dream- Fairies  flew  very  much 
faster  than  any  bird  can  fly.  As  they  sped 
along  they  told  Sweet-One-Darling  all  about 
the  wonderful  things  they  saw  and  every 
thing  was  new  to  Sweet-One-Darling,  for 
she  had  never  made  any  journeys  before  ex 
cept  in  the  little  basket-carriage  which  Good- 
Old-Soul,  her  nurse,  propelled  every  sunny 
morning  up  and  down  the  street.  Pretty 
soon  they  came  to  a  beautiful  river,  which 
looked  as  if  it  were  molten  silver;  but  it 
was  n't  molten  silver;  it  was  a  river  of 
moonbeams. 

"  We  will  take  a  sail  now, "  said  Gleam-o'- 
the-Murk.  "This  river  leads  straight  to  the 
Moon,  and  it  is  well  worth  navigating." 

So  they  all  got  into  a  boat  that  had  a  sail 
made  out  often  thousand  and  ten  baby-spi 
ders'  webs,  and  away  they  sailed  as  merrily 
as  you  please.  Sweet-One-Darling  put  her 
feet  over  the  side  of  the  boat  and  tried  to 
trail  them  in  the  river,  but  the  moonbeams 


220 


OF  TALES 

tickled  her  so  that  she  could  n't  stand  it  very 
long.  And  what  do  you  think  ?  When  she 
pulled  her  feet  back  into  the  boat  she  found 
them  covered  with  dimples.  She  did  n't 
know  what  to  make  of  these  phenomena 
until  the  Dream-Fairies  explained  to  her  that 
a  dimple  always  remains  where  a  moon 
beam  tickles  a  little  child.  A  dimple  on  the 
foot  is  a  sure  sign  that  one  has  been  trailing 
in  that  beautiful  silver  river  that  leads  to  the 
Moon. 

By  and  by  they  got  to  the  Moon.  I  can't 
begin  to  tell  you  how  large  it  was;  you  'd 
not  believe  me  if  I  did. 

"This  is  very  lovely,"  said  Sweet-One- 
Darling,  "but  where  are  the  little  babies  ?" 

"Surely  you  did  n't  suppose  you  'd  find 
any  babies  here ! "  exclaimed  the  Dream-Fai 
ries.  "Why,  in  all  this  bright  light  the 
babies  would  never,  never  go  to  sleep!  Oh, 
no;  we  '11  have  to  look  for  the  babies  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Moon." 

"  Of  course  we  shall,"  said  Sweet-One- 
Darling.  "I  might  have  guessed  as  much 
if  I  'd  only  stopped  to  think." 

The  Dream-Fairies  showed  Sweet-One- 


SECOND    BOOK 

Darling  how  to  get  to  the  edge  of  the  Moon, 
and  when  she  had  crawled  there  she  held 
on  to  the  edge  very  fast  and  peeped  over  as 
cautiously  as  if  she  had  been  a  timid  little 
mouse  instead  of  the  bravest  Sweet-One- 
Darling  in  all  the  world.  She  was  very 
cautious  and  quiet,  because  the  Dream- 
Fairies  had  told  her  that  she  must  be  very 
sure  not  to  awaken  any  of  the  little  babies, 
for  there  are  no  Mothers  up  there  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Moon,  and  if  by  any  chance 
a  little  baby  is  awakened  — why,  as  you 
would  easily  suppose,  the  consequences  are 
exceedingly  embarrassing. 

"Can  you  see  anything?"  asked  the 
Dream-Fairies  of  Sweet-One-Darling  as  she 
clung  to  the  edge  of  the  Moon  and  peeped 
over. 

"I  should  say  I  did!"  exclaimed  Sweet- 
One-Darling.  "I  never  supposed  there 
could  be  so  beautiful  a  place.  I  see  a  large, 
fair  garden,  filled  with  shrubbery  and  flow 
ers;  there  are  fountains  and  velvety  hillocks 
and  silver  lakes  and  embowered  nooks. 
A  soft,  dim,  golden  light  broods  over  the 
quiet  spot." 


OF  TALES 

"Yes,  that  is  the  light  which  shines 
through  the  Moon  from  the  bright  side;  but 
it  is  very  faint,"  said  the  Dream-Fairies. 

"  And  I  see  the  little  babies  asleep,"  con 
tinued  Sweet-One-Darling.  "They  are 
lying  in  the  embowered  nooks,  near  the 
fountains,  upon  the  velvety  hillocks,  amid 
the  flowers,  under  the  trees,  and  upon  the 
broad  leaves  of  the  lilies  in  the  silver  lakes. 
How  cunning  and  plump  and  sweet  they  are 
—  I  must  take  some  of  them  back  with  me!  " 

If  they  had  not  been  afraid  of  waking  the 
babies  the  Dream-Fairies  would  have  laughed 
uproariously  at  this  suggestion.  Just  fancy 
Sweet-One-Darling,  a  baby  herself,  under 
taking  the  care  of  a  lot  of  other  little  babies 
fresh  from  the  garden  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Moon! 

"  I  wonder  how  they  all  came  here  in  this 
Moon-Garden  ?  "  asked  Sweet-One-Darling. 
And  the  Dream-Fairies  told  her. 

They  explained  that  whenever  a  mother 
upon  earth  asked  for  a  little  baby  of  her  own 
her  prayer  floated  up  and  up  —  many  leagues 
up  —  and  was  borne  to  the  other  side  of  the 
Moon,  where  it  fell  and  rested  upon  a  lily 
223 


SECOND   BOOK 

leaf  or  upon  a  bank  of  flowers  in  that  beauti 
ful  garden.  And  resting  there  the  prayer 
presently  grew  and  grew  until  it  became  a 
cunning  little  baby!  So  when  the  Doctor- 
Man  came  with  his  box  the  baby  was  await 
ing  him,  and  he  had  only  to  carry  the  pre 
cious  little  thing  to  the  Mother  and  give  her 
prayer  back  to  her  to  keep  and  to  love  al 
ways.  There  are  so  very  many  of  these  tiny 
babies  in  the  Moon-Garden  that  sometimes 
—  he  does  n't  do  it  of  purpose — but  some 
times  the  Doctor-Man  brings  the  baby  to 
the  wrong  mother,  and  that  makes  the  real 
mother,  who  prayed  for  the  baby,  feel  very, 
very  badly. 

Well,  I  actually  believe  that  Sweet-One- 
Darling  would  gladly  have  spent  the  rest 
of  her  life  clinging  to  the  edge  of  the  Moon 
and  peeping  over  at  the  babies  in  that  beauti 
ful  garden.  But  the  Dream-Fairies  agreed 
that  this  would  never  do  at  all.  They 
finally  got  Sweet-One-Darling  away  by 
promising  to  stop  on  their  journey  home  to 
replenish  her  nursing  bottle  at  the  Milky 
Way,  which,  as  perhaps  you  know,  is  a 
marvellous  lacteal  ocean  in  the  very  midst  of 
224 


OF   TALES 

the  sky.  This  beverage  had  so  peculiar  and 
so  soothing  a  charm  that  presently  Sweet- 
One-Darling  went  sound  asleep,  and  when 
she  woke  up — goodness  me!  it  was  late  in 
the  morning,  and  her  brother,  little  Our- 
Golden-Son,  was  standing  by  her  cradle, 
wondering  why  she  did  n't  wake  up  to  look 
at  his  beautiful  new  toy  elephant. 

Sweet-One-Darling  told  Good-Old-Soul 
and  little  Our-Golden-Son  all  about  the  gar 
den  on  the  other  side  of  the  Moon. 

"I  am  sure  it  is  true,"  said  Good-Old- 
Soul.  "And  now  that  I  come  to  think  of 
it,  that  is  the  reason  why  the  Moon  always 
turns  her  bright  side  toward  our  earth !  If 
the  other  side  were  turned  this  way  the  light 
of  the  sun  and  the  noise  we  make  would 
surely  awaken  and  frighten  those  poor  little 
babies!  " 

Little  Our-Golden-Son  believed  the  story, 
too.  And  if  Good-Old-Soul  and  little  Our- 
Golden-Son  believed  it,  why  should  n't  you  ? 
If  it  were  not  true  how  could  I  have  known 
all  about  it  and  told  it  to  you  ? 


225 


anfc  li 


SAMUEL   COWLES 
AND    HIS   HORSE    ROYAL 


THE  day  on  which  I  was  twelve  years 
old  my  father  said  to  me:  "Samuel, 
walk  down  the  lane  with  me  to  the  pasture- 
lot  ;  I  want  to  show  you  something. "  Never 
suspicioning  anything,  I  trudged  along  with 
father,  and  what  should  I  find  in  the  pas 
ture  lot  but  the  cunningest,  prettiest,  liveli 
est  colt  a  boy  ever  clapped  eyes  on ! 

"That  is  my  birthday  present  to  you," 
said  father.  "Yes,  Samuel,  I  give  the  colt 
to  you  to  do  with  as  you  like,  for  you  've 
been  a  good  boy  and  have  done  well  at 
school." 

You  can  easily  understand  that  my  boyish 

heart   overflowed  with  pride  and  joy  and 

gratitude.     A  great  many  years  have  elapsed 

since  that  time,  but  I  have  n't  forgotten  and 

229 


SECOND   BOOK 

I  never  shall  forget  the  delight  of  that  mo 
ment,  when  I  realized  that  1  had  a  colt  of  my 
own  — a  real,  live  colt,  and  a  Morgan  colt, 
at  that! 

"  How  old  is  he,  father  ?  "  I  asked. 

"A  week  old,  come  to-morrow,"   said 
father. 

"Has  Judge   Phipps   seen   him  yet?"  I 
asked. 

"No;  nobody  has  seen  him  but  you  and 
me  and  the  hired  man." 

Judge  Phipps  was  the  justice  of  the  peace. 
1  had  a  profound  respect  for  him,  for  what 
he  did  n't  know  about  horses  was  n't  worth 
knowing;  I  was  sure  of  this,  because  the 
judge  himself  told  me  so.  One  of  the  first 
duties  to  which  I  applied  myself  was  to  go 
and  get  the  judge  and  show  him  the  colt. 
The  judge  praised  the  pretty  creature  inor 
dinately,  enumerating  all  his  admirable  points 
and  predicting  a  famous  career  for  him. 
The  judge  even  went  so  far  as  to  express  the 
conviction  that  in  due  time  my  colt  would 
win  "imperishable  renown  and  immortal 
laurels  as  a  competitor  at  the  meetings  of  the 
Hampshire  County  Trotting  Association,"  of 
230 


OF   TALES 

which  association  the  judge  was  the  presi 
dent,  much  to  the  scandal  of  his  estimable 
wife,  who  viewed  with  pious  horror  her 
husband's  connection  with  the  race-track. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  name  my 
colt  ?  "  I  asked  of  the  judge. 

"When  I  was  about  your  age,"  the  judge 
answered,  "I  had  a  colt  and  I  named  him 
Royal.  He  won  all  the  premiums  at  the 
county  fair  before  he  was  six  year  old." 

That  was  quite  enough  for  me.  To  my 
thinking  every  utterance  of  the  judge's  was 
ex  cathedra ;  moreover,  in  my  boyish  exuber 
ance,  I  fancied  that  this  name  would  start 
my  colt  auspiciously  upon  a  famous  career; 
I  began  at  once  to  think  and  to  speak  of  him 
as  the  prospective  winner  of  countless 
honors. 

From  the  moment  when  I  first  set  eyes  on 
Royal  I  was  his  stanch  friend;  even  now, 
after  the  lapse  of  years,  I  cannot  think  of  my 
old  companion  without  feeling  here  in  my 
breast  a  sense  of  gratitude  that  that  honest, 
patient,  loyal  friend  entered  so  largely  into 
my  earlier  life. 

Twice  a  day  I  used  to  trudge  down  the 
231 


SECOND   BOOK 

lane  to  the  pasture-lot  to  look  at  the  colt, 
and  invariably  I  was  accompanied  by  a  troop 
of  boy  acquaintances  who  heartily  envied 
me  my  good  luck,  and  who  regaled  me  con 
stantly  with  suggestions  of  what  they  would 
do  if  Royal  were  their  colt.  Royal  soon  be 
came  friendly  with  us  all,  and  he  would  re 
spond  to  my  call,  whinnying  to  me  as  I  came 
down  the  lane,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Good 
morning  to  you,  little  master!  I  hope  you 
are  coming  to  have  a  romp  with  me. "  And, 
gracious!  how  he  would  curve  his  tail  and 
throw  up  his  head  and  gather  his  short  body 
together  and  trot  around  the  pasture-lot  on 
those  long  legs  of  his!  He  enjoyed  life, 
Royal  did,  as  much  as  we  boys  enjoyed  it. 

Naturally  enough,  I  made  all  sorts  of  plans 
for  Royal.  I  recall  that,  after  I  had  been 
on  a  visit  to  Springfield  and  had  beholden 
for  the  first  time  the  marvels  of  Barnum's 
show,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  when  Royal 
and  I  were  old  enough  we  would  unite  our 
fortunes  with  those  of  a  circus,  and  in  my 
imagination  I  already  pictured  huge  and 
gaudy  posters  announcing  the  blood-cur 
dling  performances  of  the  dashing  bareback 
232 


OF  TALES 

equestrian,  Samuel  Cowles,  upon  his  fiery 
Morgan  steed,  Royal!  This  plan  was  not 
at  all  approved  of  by  Judge  Phipps,  who 
continued  to  insist  that  it  was  on  the  turf 
and  not  in  the  sawdust  circle  that  Royal's 
genius  lay,  and  to  this  way  of  thinking  I 
was  finally  converted,  but  not  until  the  judge 
had  promised  to  give  me  a  sulky  as  soon  as 
Royal  demonstrated  his  ability  to  make  a 
mile  in  2 140. 

It  is  not  without  a  sigh  of  regret  that  in  my 
present  narrative  I  pass  over  the  five  years 
next  succeeding  the  date  of  Royal's  arrival. 
For  they  were  very  happy  years  —  indeed,  at 
this  distant  period  I  am  able  to  recall  only 
that  my  boyhood  was  full,  brimful  of  happi 
ness.  I  broke  Royal  myself;  father  and  the 
hired  man  stood  around  and  made  sugges 
tions,  and  at  times  they  presumed  to  take  a 
hand  in  the  proceedings.  Virtually,  how 
ever,  I  broke  Royal  to  the  harness  and  to  the 
saddle,  and  after  that  I  was  even  more  at 
tached  to  him  than  ever  before  —  you  know 
how  it  is,  if  ever  you  've  broken  a  colt  your 
self! 

When  I  went  away  to  college  it  seemed 

233 


SECOND   BOOK 

to  me  that  leaving  Royal  was  almost  as  hard 
as  leaving  mother  and  father;  you  see  the 
colt  had  become  a  very  large  part  of  my  boy 
ish  life  —  followed  me  like  a  pet  dog,  was 
lonesome  when  I  was  n't  round,  used  to  rub 
his  nose  against  my  arm  and  look  lovingly 
at  me  out  of  his  big,  dark,  mournful  eyes  — 
yes,  I  cried  when  I  said  good-by  to  him  the 
morning  I  started  for  Williamstown.  I  was 
ashamed  of  it  then,  but  not  now  —  no,  not 
now. 

But  my  fun  was  all  the  keener,  I  guess, 
when  I  came  home  at  vacation  times.  Then 
we  had  it,  up  hill  and  down  dale — Royal 
and  I  did!  In  the  summer-time  along  the 
narrow  roads  we  trailed,  and  through  leafy 
lanes,  and  in  my  exultation  I  would  cut  at 
the  tall  weeds  at  the  roadside  and  whisk  at 
the  boughs  arching  overhead,  as  if  I  were  a 
warrior  mounted  for  battle  and  these  other 
things  were  human  victims  to  my  valor.  In 
the  winter  we  sped  away  over  the  snow 
and  ice,  careless  to  the  howling  of  the  wind 
and  the  wrath  of  the  storm.  Royal  knew 
the  favorite  road,  every  inch  of  the  way ;  he 
knew,  too,  when  Susie  held  the  reins - 
234 


OF  TALES 

Susie  was  Judge  Phipps'  niece,  and  I  guess 
she  'd  have  mittened  me  if  it  had  n't  been 
that  I  had  the  finest  colt  in  the  county! 

The  summer  I  left  college  there  came  to 
me  an  overwhelming  sense  of  patriotic  duty. 
Mother  was  the  first  to  notice  my  absent- 
mindedness,  and  to  her  I  first  confided  the 
great  wish  of  my  early  manhood.  It  is  hard 
for  parents  to  bid  a  son  go  forth  to  do  ser 
vice  upon  the  battlefield,  but  New  England 
in  those  times  responded  cheerfully  and 
nobly  to  Mr.  Lincoln's  call.  The  Eighth  Mas 
sachusetts  cavalry  was  the  regiment  I  en 
listed  in ;  a  baker's  dozen  of  us  boys  went 
together  from  the  quiet  little  village  nestling 
in  the  shadow  of  Mount  Holyoke.  From 
Camp  Andrew  I  wrote  back  a  piteous  letter, 
complaining  of  the  horse  that  had  been  as 
signed  to  me;  I  wanted  Royal;  we  had 
been  inseparable  in  times  of  peace  —  why 
should  we  not  share  together  the  fortunes 
of  war  ?  Within  a  fortnight  along  came 
Royal,  conducted  in  all  dignity  by  —  you 
would  never  guess  — by  Judge  Phipps !  Full 
of  patriotism  and  of  cheer  was  the  judge. 
"  Both  of  ye  are  thoroughbreds,"  said  he. 

235 


SECOND   BOOK 

'  Ye  '11  come  in  under  the  wire  first  every 
time,  1  know  ye  will." 

The  judge  also  brought  me  a  saddle  blanket 
which  Susie  had  ornamented  with  wondrous 
and  tender  art. 

So  Royal  and  I  went  into  the  war  together. 
There  were  times  of  privation  and  of  danger ; 
neither  of  us  ever  complained.  I  am  proud 
to  bear  witness  that  in  every  emergency  my 
horse  bore  himself  with  a  patience  and  a 
valor  that  seemed  actually  human.  My  com 
rades  envied  me  my  gentle,  stanch,  obedient 
servant.  Indeed,  Royal  and  I  became  fa 
mous  as  inseparable  and  loyal  friends. 

We  were  in  five  battles  and  neither  of 
us  got  even  so  much  as  a  scratch.  But  one 
afternoon  in  a  skirmish  with  the  rebels  near 
Potomac  Mills  a  bullet  struck  me  in  the 
thigh,  and  from  the  mere  shock  1  fell  from 
Royal's  back  into  the  tangle  of  the  thicket. 
The  fall  must  have  stunned  me,  for  the  next 
thing  1  knew  I  was  alone— deserted  of  all 
except  my  faithful  horse.  Royal  stood  over 
me,  and  when  I  opened  my  eyes  he  gave  a 
faint  whinny.  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do. 
My  leg  pained  me  excruciatingly.  I  sur- 
236 


OF  TALES 

mised  that  I  would  never  be  able  to  make 
my  way  back  to  camp  under  the  fire  of  the 
rebel  picketers,  for  I  discovered  that  they 
were  closing  in. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  to  pin  a  note  to 
Royal's  saddle  blanket  and  to  send  Royal 
back  to  camp  telling  the  boys  of  the  trouble 
1  was  in.  The  horse  understood  it  all;  off 
he  galloped,  conscious  of  the  import  of  the 
mission  upon  which  he  had  been  dispatched. 
Bang-bang-bang!  went  the  guns  over  yon 
der,  as  if  the  revengeful  creatures  in  the  far- 
off  brush  guessed  the  meaning  of  our  manceu- 
vering  and  sought  to  slay  my  loyal  friend. 
But  not  a  bullet  touched  him  —  leastwise  he 
galloped  on  and  on  till  I  lost  sight  of  him. 

They  came  for  me  at  last,  the  boys  did ; 
they  were  a  formidable  detachment,  and  how 
the  earth  shook  as  they  swept  along! 

"  We  thought  you  were  a  goner,  sure," 
said  Hi  Bixby. 

"  I  guess  1  would  have  been  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  Royal,"  said  I. 

"I  guess  so,  myself,"  said  he.  ''When 
we  saw  him  stumblin'  along  all  bloody  we 
allowed  for  sure  you  was  dead! " 

237 


SECOND   BOOK 

"All  blood?"  I  cried.    "Is  Royal  hurt?" 

"  As  bad  as  a  boss  can  be,"  said  he. 

In  camp  we  found  them  doing  the  best 
they  could  for  him.  But  it  was  clearly  of 
no  avail.  There  was  a  gaping,  ragged  hole 
in  his  side;  seeking  succor  for  me,  Royal 
had  met  his  death-wound.  I  forgot  my  own 
hurt;  I  thrust  the  others  aside  and  hobbled 
where  he  lay. 

"  Poor  old  Roy!  "  I  cried,  as  I  threw  my 
self  beside  my  dying  friend  and  put  my  arms 
about  his  neck.  Then  I  patted  and  stroked 
him  and  called  him  again  and  again  by 
name,  and  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  that 
told  me  he  knew  me  and  was  glad  that  I 
was  there. 

How  strange,  and  yet  how  beautiful,  it 
was  that  in  that  far-off  country,  with  my 
brave,  patient,  loyal  friend's  fluttering  heart 
close  unto  mine,  I  neither  saw  nor  thought 
of  the  scene  around  me. 

But  before  my  eyes  came  back  the  old, 
familiar  places  —  the  pasture  lot,  the  lane, 
the  narrow  road  up  the  hill,  the  river  wind 
ing  along  between  great  stretches  of  brown 
corn,  the  aisle  of  maple  trees,  and  the  foun- 
238 


OF  TALES 

tain  where  we  drank  so  many,  many  times 
together — and  I  smelled  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers  and  trees  abloom,  and  I  heard  the 
dear  voices  and  the  sweet  sounds  of  my 
boyhood  days. 

Then  presently  a  mighty  shudder  awak 
ened  me  from  this  dreaming.  And  I  cried 
out  with  affright  and  grief,  for  I  felt  that  I 
was  alone. 


239 


<€t)c  JDeretorif 


THE  WEREWOLF 


IN  the  reign  of  Egbert  the  Saxon  there 
dwelt  in  Britain  a  maiden  named  Yseult, 
who  was  beloved  of  all,  both  for  her  good 
ness  and  for  her  beauty.  But,  though 
many  a  youth  came  wooing  her,  she  loved 
Harold  only,  and  to  him  she  plighted  her 
troth. 

Among  the  other  youth  of  whom  Yseult 
was  beloved  was  Alfred,  and  he  was  sore 
angered  that  Yseult  showed  favor  to  Har 
old,  so  that  one  day  Alfred  said  to  Harold: 
"Is  it  right  that  old  Siegfried  should  come 
from  his  grave  and  have  Yseult  to  wife?" 
Then  added  he,  "Prithee,  good  sir,  why  do 
you  turn  so  white  when  I  speak  your  grand- 
sire's  name  ?" 

Then  Harold  asked,  "What  know  you  of 
Siegfried  that  you  taunt  me  ?    What  mem 
ory  of  him  should  vex  me  now  ?  " 
243 


SECOND   BOOK 

"We  know  and  we  know,"  retorted  Al 
fred.  "  There  are  some  tales  told  us  by  our 
grandmas  we  have  not  forgot." 

So  ever  after  that  Alfred's  words  and  Al 
fred's  bitter  smile  haunted  Harold  by  day  and 
night. 

Harold's  grandsire,  Siegfried  the  Teuton, 
had  been  a  man  of  cruel  violence.  The  le 
gend  said  that  a  curse  rested  upon  him,  and 
that  at  certain  times  he  was  possessed  of  an 
evil  spirit  that  wreaked  its  fury  on  mankind. 
But  Siegfried  had  been  dead  full  many  years, 
and  there  was  naught  to  mind  the  world  of 
him  save  the  legend  and  a  cunning-wrought 
spear  which  he  had  from  Brunehilde,  the 
witch.  This  spear  was  such  a  weapon  that 
it  never  lost  its  brightness,  nor  had  its  point 
been  blunted.  It  hung  in  Harold's  chamber, 
and  it  was  the  marvel  among  weapons  of 
that  time. 

Yseult  knew  that  Alfred  loved  her,  but  she 
did  not  know  of  the  bitter  words  which 
Alfred  had  spoken  to  Harold.  Her  love  for 
Harold  was  perfect  in  its  trust  and  gentle 
ness.  But  Alfred  had  hit  the  truth :  the  curse 
of  old  Siegfried  was  upon  Harold  —  slumber- 
244 


OF  TALES 

ing  a  century,  it  had  awakened  in  the  blood 
of  the  grandson,  and  Harold  knew  the  curse 
that  was  upon  him,  and  it  was  this  that 
seemed  to  stand  between  him  and  Yseult. 
But  love  is  stronger  than  all  else,  and  Harold 
loved. 

Harold  did  not  tell  Yseult  of  the  curse  that 
was  upon  him,  for  he  feared  that  she  would 
not  love  him  if  she  knew.  Whensoever  he 
felt  the  fire  of  the  curse  burning  in  his  veins 
he  would  say  to  her,  "To-morrow  I  hunt 
the  wild  boar  in  the  uttermost  forest,"  or, 
"Next  week  I  go  stag-stalking  among  the 
distant  northern  hills."  Even  so  it  was  that 
he  ever  made  good  excuse  for  his  absence, 
and  Yseult  thought  no  evil  things,  for  she 
was  trustful ;  ay,  though  he  went  many  times 
away  and  was  long  gone,  Yseult  suspected 
no  wrong.  So  none  beheld  Harold  when 
the  curse  was  upon  him  in  its  violence. 

Alfred  alone  bethought  himself  of  evil 
things.  "  T  is  passing  strange,"  quoth  he, 
"that  ever  and  anon  this  gallant  lover  should 
quit  ourcompany  and  betake  himself  whither 
none  knoweth.  In  sooth  't  will  be  well  to 
have  an  eye  on  old  Siegfried's  grandson." 


SECOND   BOOK 

Harold  knew  that  Alfred  watched  him 
zealously,  and  he  was  tormented  by  a  con 
stant  fear  that  Alfred  would  discover  the 
curse  that  was  on  him;  but  what  gave  him 
greater  anguish  was  the  fear  that  mayhap  at 
some  moment  when  he  was  in  Yseult's 
presence,  the  curse  would  seize  upon  him 
and  cause  him  to  do  great  evil  unto  her, 
whereby  she  would  be  destroyed  or  her  love 
for  him  would  be  undone  forever.  So  Har 
old  lived  in  terror,  feeling  that  his  love  was 
hopeless,  yet  knowing  not  how  to  combat  it. 

Now,  it  befell  in  those  times  that  the  coun 
try  round  about  was  ravaged  of  a  werewolf, 
a  creature  that  was  feared  by  all  men  howe'er 
so  valorous.  This  werewolf  was  by  day  a 
man,  but  by  night  a  wolf  given  to  ravage 
and  to  slaughter,  and  having  a  charmed  life 
against  which  no  human  agency  availed 
aught.  Wheresoever  he  went  he  attacked 
and  devoured  mankind,  spreading  terror  and 
desolation  round  about,  and  the  dream-read 
ers  said  that  the  earth  would  not  be  freed 
from  the  werewolf  until  some  man  offered 
himself  a  voluntary  sacrifice  to  the  monster's 
rage. 

246 


OF   TALES 

Now,  although  Harold  was  known  far  and 
wide  as  a  mighty  huntsman,  he  had  never 
set  forth  to  hunt  the  werewolf,  and,  strange 
enow,  the  werewolf  never  ravaged  the  do 
main  while  Harold  was  therein.  Whereat 
Alfred  marvelled  much,  and  oftentimes  he 
said:  ''Our  Harold  is  a  wondrous  hunts 
man.  Who  is  like  unto  him  in  stalking  the 
timid  doe  and  in  crippling  the  fleeing  boar  ? 
But  how  passing  well  doth  he  time  his  ab 
sence  from  the  haunts  of  the  werewolf. 
Such  valor  beseemeth  our  young  Siegfried." 

Which  being  brought  to  Harold  his  heart 
flamed  with  anger,  but  he  made  no  answer, 
lest  he  should  betray  the  truth  he  feared. 

It  happened  so  about  that  time  that  Yseult 
said  to  Harold,  "Wilt  thou  go  with  me  to 
morrow  even  to  the  feast  in  the  sacred 
grove  ?  " 

"That  can  I  not  do,"  answered  Harold. 
' '  I  am  privily  summoned  hence  to  Normandy 
upon  a  mission  of  which  I  shall  some  time 
tell  thee.  And  I  pray  thee,  on  thy  love  for 
me,  go  not  to  the  feast  in  the  sacred  grove 
without  me." 

"What  say'st  thou?"  cried  Yseult. 
247 


SECOND   BOOK 

"  Shall  I  not  go  to  the  feast  of  Ste.  /Elfreda  ? 
My  father  would  be  sore  displeased  were  I 
not  there  with  the  other  maidens.  T  were 
greatest  pity  that  I  should  despite  his  love 
thus." 

"But  do  not,  I  beseech  thee,"  Harold 
implored.  "Go  not  to  the  feast  of  Ste. 
/Elfreda  in  the  sacred  grove!  And  thou 
would  thus  love  me,  go  not — see,  thou  my 
life,  on  my  two  knees  I  ask  it! " 

"  How  pale  thou  art,"  said  Yseult,  "  and 
trembling." 

"Go  not  to  the  sacred  grove  upon  the 
morrow  night,"  he  begged. 

Yseult  marvelled  at  his  acts  and  at  his 
speech.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  thought 
him  to  be  jealous  —  whereat  she  secretly  re 
joiced  (being  a  woman). 

"  Ah,"  quoth  she,  "thou  dost  doubt  my 
love,"  but  when  she  saw  a  look  of  pain 
come  on  his  face  she  added  —  as  if  she  re 
pented  of  the  words  she  had  spoken —  "or 
dost  thou  fear  the  werewolf?" 

Then  Harold  answered,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
hers,  "  Thou  hast  said  it;  it  is  the  werewolf 
that  I  fear." 


OF  TALES 

"  Why  dost  thou  look  at  me  so  strangely, 
Harold  ?  "  cried  Yseult.  "  By  the  cruel  light 
in  thine  eyes  one  might  almost  take  thee  to 
be  the  werewolf  !  " 

"Come  hither,  sit  beside  me,"  said  Har 
old  tremblingly,  "  and  1  will  tell  thee  why  1 
fear  to  have  thee  go  to  the  feast  of  Ste. 
/Elfreda  to-morrow  evening.  Hear  what  I 
dreamed  last  night.  I  dreamed  I  was  the 
werewolf — do  not  shudder,  dear  love,  for 
't  was  only  a  dream. 

"  A  grizzled  old  man  stood  at  my  bedside 
and  strove  to  pluck  my  soul  from  my  bosom. 

"  '  What  would'st  thou  ?  '  I  cried. 

"  '  Thy  soul  is  mine/  he  said,  '  thou  shalt 
live  out  my  curse.  Give  me  thy  soul — hold 
back  thy  hands — give  me  thy  soul,  I  say.' 

"'Thy  curse  shall  not  be  upon  me,'  I 
cried.  '  What  have  I  done  that  thy  curse 
should  rest  upon  me  ?  Thou  shalt  not  have 
my  soul.' 

"  '  For  my  offence  shalt  thou  suffer,  and 
in  my  curse  thou  shalt  endure  hell  —  it  is  so 
decreed.' 

"So  spake  the  old  man,  and  he  strove 
with  me,  and  he  prevailed  against  me,  and 
249 


SECOND    BOOK 

he  plucked  my  soul  from  my  bosom,  and 
he  said,  'Go,  search  and  kill'  —  and  —  and 
lo,  I  was  a  wolf  upon  the  moor. 

"The  dry  grass  crackled  beneath  my 
tread.  The  darkness  of  the  night  was  heavy 
and  it  oppressed  me.  Strange  horrors  tor 
tured  my  soul,  and  it  groaned  and  groaned, 
gaoled  in  that  wolfish  body.  The  wind 
whispered  to  me;  with  its  myriad  voices  it 
spake  to  me  and  said,  '  Go,  search  and  kill.' 
And  above  these  voices  sounded  the  hideous 
laughter  of  an  old  man.  I  fled  the  moor  — 
whither  I  knew  not,  nor  knew  I  what  motive 
lashed  me  on. 

"I  came  to  a  river  and  I  plunged  in.  A 
burning  thirst  consumed  me,  and  I  lapped 
the  waters  of  the  river  —  they  were  waves 
of  flame,  and  they  flashed  around  me  and 
hissed,  and  what  they  said  was,  '  Go,  search 
and  kill,'  and  I  heard  the  old  man's  laughter 
again. 

"  A  forest  lay  before  me  with  its  gloomy 
thickets  and  its  sombre  shadows  —  with  its 
ravens,  its  vampires,  its  serpents,  its  reptiles, 
and  all  its  hideous  brood  of  night.  I  darted 
among  its  thorns  and  crouched  amid  the 
250 


OF  TALES 

leaves,  the  nettles,  and  the  brambles.  The 
owls  hooted  at  me  and  the  thorns  pierced 
my  flesh.  '  Go,  search  and  kill,'  said  every 
thing.  The  hares  sprang  from  my  path 
way  ;  the  other  beasts  ran  bellowing  away ; 
every  form  of  life  shrieked  in  my  ears  —  the 
curse  was  on  me  —  I  was  the  werewolf. 

"  On,  on  I  went  with  the  fleetness  of  the 
wind,  and  my  soul  groaned  in  its  wolfish 
prison,  and  the  winds  and  the  waters  and 
the  trees  bade  me,  '  Go,  search  and  kill, 
thou  accursed  brute;  go,  search  and  kill.' 

"Nowhere  was  there  pity  for  the  wolf; 
what  mercy,  thus,  should  I,  the  werewolf, 
show  ?  The  curse  was  on  me  and  it  filled 
me  with  a  hunger  and  a  thirst  for  blood. 
Skulking  on  my  way  within  myself  I  cried, 
'  Let  me  have  blood,  oh,  let  me  have  human 
blood,  that  this  wrath  may  be  appeased,  that 
this  curse  may  be  removed.' 

"  At  last  I  came  to  the  sacred  grove. 
Sombre  loomed  the  poplars,  the  oaks 
frowned  upon  me.  Before  me  stood  an  old 
man  —  'twas  he,  grizzled  and  taunting, 
whose  curse  I  bore.  He  feared  me  not.  All 
other  living  things  fled  before  me,  but  the 
251 


SECOND    BOOK 

old  man  feared  me  not.  A  maiden  stood 
beside  him.  She  did  not  see  me,  for  she 
was  blind. 

'•''Kill,  kill,'  cried  the  old  man,  and  he 
pointed  at  the  girl  beside  him. 

"  Hell  raged  within  me  —  the  curse  im 
pelled  me  —  I  sprang  at  her  throat.  1  heard 
the  old  man's  laughter  once  more,  and  then 
—then  I  awoke,  trembling,  cold,  horrified." 

Scarce  was  this  dream  told  when  Alfred 
strode  that  way. 

"  Now,  by'r  Lady,"  quoth  he,  "  I  bethink 
me  never  to  have  seen  a  sorrier  twain." 

Then  Yseult  told  him  of  Harold's  going 
away  and  how  that  Harold  had  besought 
her  not  to  venture  to  the  feast  of  Ste.  /Elfreda 
in  the  sacred  grove. 

"These  fears  are  childish,"  cried  Alfred 
boastfully.  "  And  thou  sufferest  me,  sweet 
lady,.  I  will  bear  thee  company  to  the  feast, 
and  a  score  of  my  lusty  yeomen  with  their 
good  yew-bows  and  honest  spears,  they 
shall  attend  me.  There  be  no  werewolf,  I 
trow,  will  chance  about  with  us." 

Whereat  Yseult  laughed  merrily,  and  Har 
old  said:  "  T  is  well;  thou  shalt  go  to  the 
252 


OF  TALES 

sacred  grove,  and  may  my  love  and  Heaven's 
grace  forefend  all  evil." 

Then  Harold  went  to  his  abode,  and  he 
fetched  old  Siegfried's  spear  back  unto 
Yseult,  and  he  gave  it  into  her  two  hands, 
saying,  "Take  this  spear  wi.th  thee  to  the 
feast  to-morrow  night.  It  is  old  Siegfried's 
spear,  possessing  mighty  virtue  and  marvel 
lous." 

And  Harold  took  Yseult  to  his  heart  and 
blessed  her,  and  he  kissed  her  upon  her  brow 
and  upon  her  lips,  saying,  "Farewell,  oh, 
my  beloved.  How  wilt  thou  love  me  when 
thou  know'st  my  sacrifice.  Farewell,  fare 
well  forever,  oh,  alder-liefest  mine." 

So  Harold  went  his  way,  and  Yseult  was 
lost  in  wonderment. 

On  the  morrow  night  came  Yseult  to  the 
sacred  grove  wherein  the  feast  was  spread, 
and  she  bore  old  Siegfried's  spear  with  her 
in  her  girdle.  Alfred  attended  her,  and  a 
score  of  lusty  yeomen  were  with  him.  In 
the  grove  there  was  great  merriment,  and 
with  singing  and  dancing  and  games  withal 
did  the  honest  folk  celebrate  the  feast  of  the 
fair  Ste.  /Elfreda. 

253 


SECOND   BOOK 

But  suddenly  a  mighty  tumult  arose,  and 
there  were  cries  of  "  The  werewolf!  "  "  The 
werewolf!  "  Terror  seized  upon  all — stout 
hearts  were  frozen  with  fear.  Out  from  the 
further  forest  rushed  the  werewolf,  wood 
wroth,  bellowing  hoarsely,  gnashing  his 
fangs  and  tossing  hither  and  thither  the  yel 
low  foam  from  his  snapping  jaws.  He 
sought  Yseult  straight,  as  if  an  evil  power 
drew  him  to  the  spot  where  she  stood.  But 
Yseult  was  not  afeared ;  like  a  marble  statue 
she  stood  and  saw  the  werewolf's  coming. 
The  yeomen,  dropping  their  torches  and 
casting  aside  their  bows,  had  fled;  Alfred 
alone  abided  there  to  do  the  monster  battle. 

At  the  approaching  wolf  he  hurled  his 
heavy  lance,  but  as  it  struck  the  werewolf's 
bristling  back  the  weapon  was  all  to-shiv 
ered. 

Then  the  werewolf,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
Yseult,  skulked  for  a  moment  in  the  shadow 
of  the  yews,  and  thinking  then  of  Harold's 
words,  Yseult  plucked  old  Siegfried's  spear 
from  her  girdle,  raised  it  on  high,  and  with 
the  strength  of  despair  sent  it  hurtling  through 
the  air. 

254 


OF  TALES 

The  werewolf  saw  the  shining  weapon, 
and  a  cry  burst  from  his  gaping  throat  —  a 
cry  of  human  agony.  And  Yseult  saw  in 
the  werewolf's  eyes  the  eyes  of  some  one 
she  had  seen  and  known,  but  't  was  for  an 
instant  only,  and  then  the  eyes  were  no 
longer  human,  but  wolfish  in  their  ferocity. 

A  supernatural  force  seemed  to  speed  the 
spear  in  its  flight.  With  fearful  precision 
the  weapon  smote  home  and  buried  itself 
by  half  its  length  in  the  werewolf's  shaggy 
breast  just  above  the  heart,  and  then,  with  a 
monstrous  sigh  —  as  if  he  yielded  up  his  life 
without  regret  —  the  werewolf  fell  dead  in 
the  shadow  of  the  yews. 

Then,  ah,  then  in  very  truth  there  was 
great  joy,  and  loud  were  the  acclaims,  while, 
beautiful  in  her  trembling  pallor,  Yseult  was 
led  unto  her  home,  where  the  people  set 
about  to  give  great  feast  to  do  her  homage, 
for  the  werewolf  was  dead,  and  she  it  was 
that  had  slain  him. 

But  Yseult  cried  out:  "Go,  search  for 
Harold  —  go,  bring  him  to  me.  Nor  eat,  nor 
sleep  till  he  be  found." 

"Good  my  lady,"  quoth  Alfred,  "how 

255 


SECOND   BOOK  OF  TALES 

can  that  be,  since  he  hath  betaken  himself  to 
Normandy  ?  " 

"I  care  not  where  he  be,"  she  cried. 
"My  heart  stands  still  until  I  look  into  his 
eyes  again." 

"  Surely  he  hath  not  gone  to  Normandy," 
outspake  Hubert.  ''This  very  eventide  I 
saw  him  enter  his  abode." 

They  hastened  thither  —  a  vast  company. 
His  chamber  door  was  barred. 

"  Harold,  Harold,  come  forth !  "  they  cried, 
as  they  beat  upon  the  door,  but  no  answer 
came  to  their  calls  and  knockings.  Afeared, 
they  battered  down  the  door,  and  when  it 
fell  they  saw  that  Harold  lay  upon  his  bed. 

"He  sleeps,"  said  one.  "See,  he  holds 
a  portrait  in  his  hand  —  and  it  is  her  portrait. 
How  fair  he  is  and  how  tranquilly  he  sleeps." 

But  no,  Harold  was  not  asleep.  His  face 
was  calm  and  beautiful,  as  if  he  dreamed  of 
his  beloved,  tut  his  raiment  was  red  with 
the  blood  that  streamed  from  a  wound  in 
his  breast — ^a  gaping,  ghastly  spear  wound 
just  above  his  heart. 


256 


from  "Culture'?* 

* 


A  MARVELLOUS  INVENTION 


IT  is  narrated,  that,  once  upon  a  time,  there 
lived  a  youth  who  required  so  much 
money  for  the  gratification  of  his  dissolute 
desires,  that  he  was  compelled  to  sell  his 
library  in  order  to  secure  funds.  Thereupon, 
he  despatched  a  letter  to  his  venerable  father, 
saying,  "  Rejoice  with  me,  O  father!  for  al 
ready  am  I  beginning  to  live  upon  the  profits 
of  my  books." 

Professor  Andrew  J.  Thorpe  has  invented 
an  ingenious  machine  which  will  be  likely  to 
redound  to  the  physical  comfort  and  the 
intellectual  benefit  of  our  fellow-citizens. 
We  are  disposed  to  treat  of  this  invention  at 
length,  for  two  reasons:  first,  because  it  is 
a  Chicago  invention;  and,  second,  because 
it  seems  particularly  calculated  to  answer  an 
important  demand  that  has  existed  in  Chi 
cago  for  a  long  time.  Professor  Thorpe's 
259 


SECOND   BOOK 

machine  is  nothing  less  than  a  combination 
parlor,  library,  and  folding  bedstead,  adapted 
to  the  drawing-room,  the  study,  the  dining- 
room,  and  the  sleeping  apartment  —  a  pro 
ducer  capable  of  giving  to  the  world  thou 
sands  upon  thousands  of  tomes  annually, 
and  these,  too,  in  a  shape  most  attractive  to 
our  public. 

Professor  Thorpe  himself  is  of  New-Eng 
land  birth  and  education;  and,  until  he  came 
West,  he  was  called  "  Uncle  Andy  Thorpe." 
For  many  years  he  lived  in  New  Britain,  Con 
necticut;  and  there  he  pursued  the  vocation 
of  a  manufacturer  of  sofas,  settees,  settles,and 
bed-lounges.  He  came  to  Chicago  three 
years  ago;  and  not  long  thereafter,  he  dis 
covered  that  the  most  imperative  demand  of 
this  community  was  for  a  bed  which  com 
bined,  "at  one  and  the  same  time"  (as  he 
says,  for  he  is  no  rhetorician),  the  advan 
tages  of  a  bed  and  the  advantages  of  a  library. 
In  a  word,  Chicago  was  a  literary  centre; 
and  it  required,  even  in  the  matter  of  its 
sleeping  apparata,  machines  which,  when 
not  in  use  for  bed-purposes,  could  be  utilized 
to  the  nobler  ends  of  literary  display. 
260 


OF  TALES 

In  this  emergency  the  fertile  Yankee  wit 
of  the  immigrant  came  to  his  assistance;  and 
about  a  year  ago  he  put  upon  the  market 
the  ingenious  and  valuable  combination 
which  has  commanded  the  admiration  and 
patronage  of  our  best  literary  circles,  and 
which  at  this  moment  we  are  pleased  to 
discourse  of. 

It  has  been  our  good  fortune  to  inspect 
the  superb  line  of  folding  library-bedsteads 
which  Professor  Thorpe  offers  to  the  public 
at  startlingly  low  figures,  and  we  are  sur 
prised  at  the  ingenuity  and  the  learning  ap 
parent  in  these  contrivances.  The  Essay 
bedstead  is  a  particularly  handsome  piece  of 
furniture,  being  made  of  polished  mahogany, 
elaborately  carved,  and  intricately  embel 
lished  throughout.  When  closed,  this  bed 
stead  presents  the  verisimilitude  of  a  large 
book-case  filled  with  the  essays  of  Emerson, 
Carlyle,  Bacon,  Montaigne,  Hume,  Macaulay, 
Addison,  Steele,  Johnson,  Budgell,  Hughes, 
and  others.  These  volumes  are  made  in  one 
piece,  of  the  best  seasoned  oak,  and  are 
hollow  within  throughout;  so  that  each 
shelf  constitutes  in  reality  a  chest  or  drawer 
261 


SECOND    BOOK 

which  may  be  utilized  for  divers  domestic 
purposes.  In  these  drawers  a  husband  may 
keep  his  shirts  or  neckties ;  or  in  them  a  wife 
may  stow  away  her  furs  or  flannel  under 
wear  in  summer,  and  her  white  piques  and 
muslins  in  winter. 

These  drawers  (each  of  which  extends  to 
the  height  of  twelve  inches)  are  faced  in 
superb  tree-calf,  and  afford  a  perfect  repre 
sentation  of  rows  of  books,  the  title  and 
number  of  each  volume  being  printed  in 
massive  gold  characters.  The  weight  of 
the  six  drawers  in  this  Essay  bedstead  does 
not  exceed  twelve  pounds ;  but  the  machine 
is  so  stoutly  built  as  to  admit  of  the  drawers 
containing  a  weight  equivalent  to  six  hun 
dred  pounds  without  interfering  with  the 
ease  and  nicety  of  the  machine's  operation. 
Upon  touching  a  gold-mounted  knob,  the 
book-case  divides,  the  front  part  of  it  de 
scends;  and,  presto!  you  have  as  beautiful  a 
couch  as  ever  Sancho  could  have  envied. 

This  Essay  bedstead  is  sold  for  four  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars.  Another  design,  with 
the  case  and  bed  in  black  walnut,  the  books 
in  papier  mache,  and  none  but  English  es- 


OF   TALES 

sayists  in  the  collection,  can  be  had  for  a 
hundred  dollars. 

A  British  Poets'  folding-bed  can  be  had 
for  three  hundred  dollars.  This  is  an  imita 
tion  of  the  blue-and-gold  edition  published 
in  Boston  some  years  ago.  Busts  of  Shake 
speare  and  of  Wordsworth  appear  at  the  front 
upper  corners  of  the  book-case,  and  these 
serve  as  pedestals  to  the  machine  when  it  is 
unfolded  into  a  bedstead.  This  style,  we  are 
told  by  Professor  Thorpe,  has  been  officially 
indorsed  by  the  poetry  committee  of  the  Chi 
cago  Literary  Club.  A  second  design,  in 
royal  octavo  white  pine,  and  omitting  the 
works  of  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Ben  Jonson,  and 
Herrick,  is  quoted  at  a  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars. 

The  Historical  folding-bed  contains  com 
plete  sets  of  Hume,  Gibbon,  Guizot,  Pres- 
cott,  Macaulay,  Bancroft,  Lingard,  Buckle, 
etc.,  together  with  Haines's  '•  History  of 
Lake-County  Indians"  and  Peck's  "  Gazet 
teer  of  Illinois,"  bound  in  half  calf,  and  hav 
ing  a  storage  space  of  three  feet  by  fourteen 
inches  to  each  row,  there  being  six  rows  of 
these  books.  You  can  get  this  folding-bed 
263 


SECOND   BOOK 

for  two  hundred  dollars,  or  there  is  a  second 
set  in  cloth  that  can  be  had  for  a  hundred 
dollars. 

The  Dramatists'  folding-bed  (No.  i)  costs 
three  hundred  dollars,  bound  in  tree-calf 
hard  maple,  the  case  being  in  polished 
cherry,  elaborately  carved.  The  works  in 
cluded  in  this  library  are  Shakespeare's,  Schil 
ler's,  Moliere's,  Goethe's,  Jonson's,  Bartley 
Campbell's,  and  many  others.  Style  No.  2 
of  this  folding-bed  has  not  yet  been  issued, 
owing  to  some  difficulty  which  Professor 
Thorpe  has  had  with  eastern  publishers; 
but  when  the  matter  of  copyright  has  been 
adjusted,  the  works  of  Plautus,  Euripides, 
Thucydides,  and  other  classic  dramatists 
will  be  brought  out  for  the  delectation  of 
appreciative  Chicagoans. 

The  Novelists'  bed  can  be  had  in  numer 
ous  styles.  One  contains  the  novels  of 
Mackenzie,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Walpole, 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  Scott,  and  is  bound 
in  tree-calf:  another,  better  adapted  to  the 
serious-minded  (especially  to  young  wo 
men),  is  made  up  of  the  novels  of  Maria 
Edgeworth,  Miss  Jane  Porter,  Miss  Burney, 
264 


OF  TALES 


and  the  Rev.  E.  P.  Roe.  This  style  can  be 
had  for  fifty  dollars.  But  the  Novelists' 
folding-bed  is  manufactured  in  a  dozen  dif 
ferent  styles,  and  one  should  consult  the 
catalogue  before  ordering. 


265 


THE  STORY  OF  XANTHIPPE 


CHICAGO,  ILL. 

To  THE  EDITOR:  I  am  in  a  great  dilemma,  and  I  come 
to  you  for  counsel.  1  love  and  wish  to  marry  a  young 
carpenter  who  has  been  waiting  on  me  for  two  years. 
My  father  wants  me  to  marry  a  literary  man  fifteen  years 
older  than  myself,  —  a  very  smart  man  I  will  admit,  but 
1  fancy  he  is  too  smart  for  me.  I  much  prefer  the  young 
carpenter,  yet  father  says  a  marriage  with  the  literary 
man  would  give  me  the  social  position  he  fancies  I  would 
enjoy.  Now,  what  am  1  to  do?  What  would  you  do, 
if  you  were  I  ? 

Yours  in  trouble, 

PRISCILLA. 

Listen,  gentle  maiden,  and  ye  others  of  her 
sex,  to  the  story  of  Xanthippe,  the  Athenian 
woman. 

Very,  very  many  years  ago  there  dwelt  in 

Athens  a  fruit-dealer  of  the  name  of  Kimon, 

who  was  possessed  of  two  daughters, —  the 

one  named  Helen  and  the  other  Xanthippe. 

266 


SECOND   BOOK   OF  TALES 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  Helen  was  wed  to 
Aristagoras  the  tinker,  and  went  with  him 
to  abide  in  his  humble  dwelling  in  the  sub 
urbs  of  Athens,  about  one  parasang's  dis 
tance  from  the  Acropolis. 

Xanthippe,  the  younger  sister,  gave  prom 
ise  of  singular  beauty;  and  at  an  early  age 
she  developed  a  wit  that  was  the  marvel  and 
the  joy  of  her  father's  household,  and  of  the 
society  that  was  to  be  met  with  there.  Pros 
perous  in  a  worldly  way,  Kimon  was  enabled 
to  give  this  favorite  daughter  the  best  edu 
cational  advantages;  and  he  was  justly  proud 
when  at  the  age  of  nineteen  Xanthippe  was 
graduated  from  the  Minerva  Female  College 
with  all  the  highest  honors  of  her  class. 
There  was  but  one  thing  that  cast  a  shadow 
upon  the  old  gentleman's  happiness,  and  that 
was  his  pain  at  observing  that  among  all 
Xanthippe's  associates  there  was  one  upon 
whom  she  bestowed  her  sweetest  smiles; 
namely,  Gatippus,  the  son  of  Heliopharnes 
the  plasterer. 

"My  daughter,"  said  Kimon,  "you  are 
now  of  an  age  when  it  becomes  a  maiden  to 
contemplate  marriage  as  a  serious  and  solemn 
267 


SECOND   BOOK 

probability :  therefore  I  beseech  you  to  prac 
tise  the  severest  discrimination  in  the  choice 
of  your  male  associates,  and  I  enjoin  upon 
you  to  have  naught  to  say  or  to  do  with  any 
youth  that  might  not  be  considered  an  eli 
gible  husband ;  for,  by  the  dog !  it  is  my  wish 
to  see  you  wed  to  one  of  good  station." 

Kimon  thereupon  proceeded  to  tell  his 
daughter  that  his  dearest  ambition  had  been 
a  desire  to  unite  her  in  marriage  with  a  lit 
erary  man.  He  saw  that  the  tendency  of 
the  times  was  in  the  direction  of  literature; 
schools  of  philosophy  were  springing  up  on 
every  side,  logic  and  poetry  were  prated  in 
every  household.  Why  should  not  the 
beautiful  and  accomplished  daughter  of  Ki 
mon  the  fruiterer  become  one  of  that  group 
of  geniuses  who  were  contributing  at  that 
particular  time  to  the  glory  of  Athens  as  the 
literary  centre  of  the  world  ?  The  truth  was 
that,  having  prospered  in  his  trade,  Kimon 
pined  for  social  recognition;  it  grieved  him 
that  one  of  his  daughters  had  wed  a  tinker, 
and  he  had  registered  a  vow  with  Pallas  that 
his  other  daughter  should  be  given  into  the 
arms  of  a  worthier  man. 
268 


OF   TALES 

Xanthippe  was  a  dutiful  daughter;  she 
had  been  taught  to  obey  her  parents;  and 
although  her  heart  inclined  to  Gatippus,  the 
son  of  Heliopharnes  the  plasterer,  she  smoth 
ered  all  rebellious  emotions,  and  said  she 
would  try  to  do  her  father's  will.  Accord 
ingly,  therefore,  Kimon  introduced  into  his 
home  one  evening  a  certain  young  Athenian 
philosopher, —  a  typical  literary  Bohemian  of 
that  time,—  one  Socrates,  a  creature  of  won 
drous  wisdom  and  ready  wit. 

The  appearance  of  this  suitor,  presumptive 
if  not  apparent,  did  not  particularly  please 
Xanthippe.  Socrates  was  an  ill-favored 
young  man.  He  was  tall,  raw-boned,  and 
gangling.  When  he  walked,  he  slouched; 
and  when  he  sat  down,  he  sprawled  like  a 
crab  upon  its  back.  His  coarse  hair  rebelled 
upon  his  head  and  chin ;  and  he  had  a  broad, 
flat  nose,  that  had  been  broken  in  two  places 
by  the  kick  of  an  Assyrian  mule.  Withal, 
Socrates  talked  delightfully;  and  it  is  not 
hard  to  imagine  that  Xanthippe's  pretty  face, 
plump  figure,  and  vivacious  manners  served 
as  an  inspiration  to  the  young  philosopher's 
wit.  So  it  was  not  long  ere  Xanthippe 
269 


SECOND    BOOK 

found  herself  entertaining  a  profound  respect 
for  Socrates. 

At  all  events,  Xanthippe,  the  Athenian 
beauty,  was  wed  to  Socrates  the  philoso 
pher.  Putting  all  thought  of  Gatippus,  the 
son  of  Heliopharnes  the  plasterer,  out  of  her 
mind,  Xanthippe  went  to  the  temple  of  Aph 
rodite,  and  was  wed  to  Socrates.  Historians 
differ  as  to  the  details  of  the  affair;  but  it 
seems  generally  agreed  that  Socrates  was 
late  at  the  ceremony,  having  been  delayed 
on  his  way  to  the  temple  by  one  Diogenes, 
who  asked  to  converse  with  him  on  the  im 
mortality  of  the  soul.  Socrates  stopped  to 
talk,  and  would  perhaps  have  been  stopping 
there  still  had  not  Kimon  hunted  him  up, 
and  fetched  him  to  the  wedding. 

A  great  wedding  it  was.  A  complete  re 
port  of  it  was  written  by  one  of  Socrates' 
friends,  another  literary  man,  named  Xeno- 
phon.  The  literary  guild,  including  philoso 
phers  by  the  score,  were  there  in  full  feath 
er,  and  Xenophon  put  himself  to  the  trouble 
of  giving  a  complete  list  of  these  distin 
guished  persons;  and  to  the  report,  as  it  was 
penned  for  the  "Athens  Weekly  Papyrus," 
270 


OF  TALES 

he  appended  a  fine  puff  of  Socrates,  which 
has  led  posterity  to  surmise  that  Socrates 
conferred  a  great  compliment  on  Xanthippe 
in  marrying  her.  Yet,  what  else  could  we 
expect  of  this  man  Xenophon  ?  The  only 
other  thing  he  ever  did  was  to  conduct  a  re 
treat  from  a  Persian  battle-field. 

And  now  began  the  trials  of  Xanthippe, 
the  wife  of  the  literary  man.  Ay,  it  was 
not  long  ere  the  young  wife  discovered  that, 
of  all  husbands  in  the  world,  the  literary  hus 
band  was  the  hardest  to  get  along  with. 
Always  late  at  his  meals,  always  absorbed 
in  his  work,  always  indifferent  to  the  com 
forts  of  home — what  a  trial  this  man  Socrates 
must  have  been!  Why,  half  the  time,  poor 
Xanthippe  did  n't  know  where  the  next 
month's  rent  was  coming  from;  and  as  for 
the  grocer's  and  butcher's  bills — well,  be 
tween  this  creditor  and  that  creditor  the  tor 
mented  little  wife's  life  fast  became  a  burden 
tb  her.  Had  it  not  been  for  her  father's  con 
venient  fruit-stall,  Xanthippe  must  have 
starved ;  and,  at  best,  fruit  as  a  regular  diet 
is  hardly  preferable  to  starvation.  And 
while  she  scrimped  and  saved,  and  made 
271 


SECOND   BOOK 

her  own  gowns,  and  patched  up  the  chil 
dren's  kilts  as  best  she  might,  Socrates  stood 
around  the  streets  talking  about  the  immor 
tality  of  the  soul  and  the  vanity  of  human  life ! 

Many  times  Xanthippe  pined  for  the 
amusements  and  seductive  gayeties  of  social 
life,  but  she  got  none.  The  only  society  she 
knew  was  the  prosy  men-folk  whom  Soc 
rates  used  to  fetch  home  with  him  occa 
sionally.  Xanthippe  grew  to  hate  them,  and 
we  don't  blame  her.  Just  imagine  that 
dirty  old  Diogenes  lolling  around  on  the  fur 
niture,  and  expressing  his  preference  for  a 
tub ;  picking  his  teeth  with  his  jack-knife,  and 
smoking  his  wretched  cob-pipe  in  the  parlor! 

"  Socrates,  dear,"  Xanthippe  would  say 
at  times,  "  please  take  me  to  the  theatre  to 
night;  I  do  so  want  to  see  that  new  tragedy 
by  Euclydides." 

But  Socrates  would  swear  by  Hercules,  or 
by  the  dog,  or  by  some  other  classic  object, 
that  he  had  an  engagement  with  the  rhetori 
cians,  or  with  the  sophists,  or  with  Alcibiades, 
or  with  Crito,  or  with  some  of  the  rest  of 
the  boys  —  he  called  them  philosophers,  but 
we  know  what  he  meant  by  that. 
272 


OF  TALES 

So  it  was  toil  and  disappointment,  disap 
pointment  and  toil,  from  one  month's  end  to 
another's;  and  so  the  years  went  by. 

Sometimes  Xanthippe  rebelled;  but,  with 
all  her  wit,  how  could  she  reason  with  Soc 
rates,  the  most  gifted  and  the  wisest  of  all 
philosophers  ?  He  had  a  provoking  way  of 
practising  upon  her  the  exasperating  meth 
ods  of  Socratic  debate, — a  system  he  had 
invented,  and  for  which  he  still  is  revered. 
Never  excited  or  angry  himself,  he  would 
ply  her  with  questions  until  she  found  her 
self  entangled  in  a  network  of  contradictions; 
and  then  she  would  be  driven,  willy-nilly, 
to  that  last  argument  of  woman — "  be 
cause.  "  Then  Socrates  —  the  brute !  —  would 
laugh  at  her,  and  would  go  out  and  sit  on 
the  front  door-steps,  and  look  henpecked. 
This  is  positively  the  meanest  thing  a  man 
can  do! 

"  Look  at  that  poor  man,"  said  the  wife 
of  Edippus  the  cobbler.  "I  do  believe  his 
wife  is  cruel  to  him :  see  how  sad  and  lone 
some  he  is." 

' '  Don't  play  with  those  Socrates  children, " 
said  another  matron.  "  Their  mother  must 
273 


SECOND   BOOK 

be  a  dreadful  shiftless  creature  to  let  her 
young  ones  run  the  streets  in  such  patched- 
up  clothes." 

So  up  and  down  the  street  the  neighbors 
gossiped  —  oh!  it  was  very  humiliating  to 
Xanthippe. 

Meanwhile  Helen  lived  in  peace  with 
Aristagoras  the  tinker.  Their  little  home  was 
cosey  and  comfortable.  Xanthippe  used  to 
go  to  see  them  sometimes,  but  the  sight  of 
their  unpretentious  happiness  made  her  even 
more  miserable.  Meanwhile,  too,  Xan 
thippe's  old  beau,  Gatippus,  had  married; 
and  from  Thessaly  came  reports  of  the  beauti 
ful  vineyard  and  the  many  wine-presses  he 
had  acquired.  So  Xanthippe's  life  became 
somewhat  more  than  a  struggle;  it  became 
a  martyrdom.  And  the  wrinkles  came  into 
Xanthippe's  face,  and  Xanthippe's  hair  grew 
gray,  and  Xanthippe's  heart  was  filled  with 
the  bitterness  of  disappointment.  And  the 
years,  full  of  grind  and  of  poverty  and  of 
neglect,  crept  wearily  on. 

Time  is  the  grim  old  collector  who  goes 
dunning   for   the   abused    wife,   and   Time 
finally  forced  a  settlement  with  Socrates. 
2  74 


OF  TALES 

Having  loafed  around  Athens  for  many 
years  to  the  neglect  of  his  family,  and  having 
obtruded  his  views  touching  the  immortal 
ity  of  the  soul  upon  certain  folk  who  believed 
that  the  first  duty  of  a  man  was  to  keep  his 
family  from  starving  to  death,  Socrates  was 
apprehended  on  a  bench-warrant,  thrown 
into  jail,  tried  by  a  jury,  and  sentenced  to  die. 

It  was  in  this  emergency  that  the  great, 
the  divine  nobility  of  the  wife  asserted  it 
self.  She  had  been  neglected  by  this  man, 
she  had  gone  in  rags  for  him,  she  had  sac 
rificed  her  beauty  and  her  hopes  and  her 
pride,  she  had  endured  the  pity  of  her  neigh 
bors,  she  had  heard  her  children  cry  with 
hunger— ay,  all  for  Mm;  yet,  when  a  right 
eous  fate  o'ertook  him,  she  forgot  all  the 
misery  of  his  doing,  and  she  went  to  him  to 
be  his  comforter. 

Well,  she  could  not  have  done  otherwise, 
for  she  was  a  woman. 

Where  was  his  philosophy  now  ?  where 
his  wisdom,  his  logic,  his  wit  ?  What  had 
become  of  his  disputatious  and  learned  as 
sociates  that  not  one  of  them  stood  up  to 
plead  for  the  life  of  Socrates  now  ?  Why, 


SECOND   BOOK  OF  TALES 

the  first  breath  of  adversity  had  blown  them 
away  as  though  they  were  but  mist;  and, 
with  these  false  friends  scattered  like  the 
coward  chaff  they  were,  grim  old  Socrates 
turned  to  Xanthippe  for  consolation. 

She  burdened  his  ears  with  no  reproaches, 
she  spoke  not  of  herself.  Her  thoughts  were 
of  him  only,  and  it  was  to  his  chilled  spirit 
that  she  alone  ministered.  Not  even  the 
horrors  of  the  hemlock  draught  could  drive 
her  from  his  side,  or  unloose  her  arms  from 
about  his  neck;  and  when  at  last  the  phil 
osopher  lay  stiff  in  death,  it  was  Xanthippe 
that  bore  away  his  corpse,  and,  with  spices 
moistened  by  her  tears,  made  it  ready  for 
the  grave. 


276 


BAKED   BEANS  AND   CULTURE 


THE  members  of  the  Boston  Commercial 
Club  are  charming  gentlemen.  They 
are  now  the  guests  of  the  Chicago  Commer 
cial  Club,  and  are  being  shown  every  atten 
tion  that  our  market  affords.  They  are  a  fine- 
lookinglot,  well-dressed  and  well-mannered, 
with  just  enough  whiskers  to  be  impressive 
without  being  imposing. 

"This  is  a  darned  likely  village,"  said 
Seth  Adams  last  evening.  "Everybody  is 
rushin'  'round  an'  doin'  business  as  if  his  life 
depended  on  it.  Should  think  they  'd  git 
all  tuckered  out  'fore  night,  but  I  '11  be  darned 
if  there  ain't  just  as  many  folks  on  the  street 
after  nightfall  as  afore.  We  're  stoppin'  at 
the  Palmer  tavern;  an'  my  chamber  is  up  so 
all-fired  high  that  I  can  count  all  your  meet- 
in'-house  steeples  from  the  winder." 
277 


SECOND   BOOK 

Last  night  five  or  six  of  these  Boston  mer 
chants  sat  around  the  office  of  the  hotel  and 
discussed  matters  and  things.  Pretty  soon 
they  got  to  talking  about  beans;  this  was 
the  subject  which  they  dwelt  on  with  evi 
dent  pleasure. 

"Waal,  sir,"  said  Ephraim  Taft,  a  whole 
sale  dealer  in  maple-sugar  and  flavored  loz 
enges,  "you  kin  talk  'bout  your  new-fash 
ioned  dishes  an'  high-falutin  vittles;  but, 
when  you  come  right  down  to  it,  there  ain't 
no  better  eatin'  than  a  dish  o'  baked  pork  'n' 
beans." 

"That 's  so,  b'gosh !  "  chorused  the  others. 

"The  truth  o'  the  matter  is,"  continued 
Mr.  Taft,  "that  beans  is  good  for  every 
body,—  't  don't  make  no  difference  whether 
he  's  well  or  sick.  Why,  I  've  known  a 
thousand  folks  — waal,  mebbe  not  quite  a 
thousand;  but,— waal,  now,  jest  to  show, 
take  the  case  of  Bill  Holbrook;  you  remem 
ber  Bill,  don't  ye?" 

"  Bill  Holbrook  ? "  said  Mr.  Ezra  Eastman ; 
"  why,  of  course  I  do!  Used  to  live  down 
to  Brimfield,  next  to  the  Moses  Howard 
farm." 

278 


OF   TALES 

"That  's  the  man,"  resumed  Mr.  Taft. 
' '  Waal,  Bill  fell  sick,  —  kinder  moped  round, 
tired  like,  for  a  week  or  two,  an'  then  tuck 
to  his  bed.  His  folks  sent  for  Dock  Smith, 
—  ol'  Dock  Smith  that  used  to  carry  round 
a  pair  o'  leather  saddlebags,  — gosh,  they 
don't  have  no  sech  doctors  nowadays! 
Waal,  the  dock,  he  come;  an'  he  looked  at 
Bill's  tongue,  an'  felt  uv  his  pulse,  an'  said 
that  Bill  had  typhus  fever.  Ol'  Dock  Smith 
was  a  very  careful,  conserv'tive  man,  an'  he 
never  said  nothin'  unless  he  knowed  he  was 
right. 

"  Bill  began  to  git  wuss,  an'  he  kep'  a-git- 
tin'  wuss  every  day.  One  mornin'  ol'  Dock 
Smith  sez,  'Looka-here,  Bill,  I  guess  you 're 
a  goner;  as  I  figger  it,  you  can't  hoi'  out  till 
nightfall.' 

"  Bill's  mother  insisted  pn  a  con-sul-tation 
bein'  held;  so  ol'  Dock  Smith  sent  over  for 
young  Dock  Brainerd.  I  calc'late  that,  next 
to  ol'  Dock  Smith,  young  Dock  Brainerd  was 
the  smartest  doctor  that  ever  lived. 

"Waal,  pretty  soon  along  come  Dock 
Brainerd;  an'  he  an'  Dock  Smith  went  all 
over  Bill,  an'  looked  at  his  tongue,  an  felt  uv 
279 


SECOND   BOOK 

his  pulse,  an'  told  him  it  was  a  gone  case, 
an'  that  he  had  got  to  die.  Then  they  went 
off  into  the  spare  chamber  to  hold  their  con- 
sul-tation. 

"  Waal,  Bill  he  lay  there  in  the  front  room 
a-pantin'  an'  a-gaspin'  an'  a-wond'rin' 
whether  it  wuz  true.  As  he  wuz  thinkin', 
up  comes  the  girl  to  get  a  clean  tablecloth  out 
of  the  clothes-press,  an'  she  left  the  door 
ajar  as  she  come  in.  Bill  he  gave  a  sniff, 
an'  his  eyes  grew  more  natural-like ;  he  gath 
ered  together  all  the  strength  he  had,  an'  he 
raised  himself  up  on  one  elbow,  an'  sniffed 
again." 

"  'Sary,'  says  he,  'wot's  that  a-cookin'?' 

"  'Beans,'  says  she,  'beans  for  dinner.' 

"  'Sary,'  says  the  dyin'  man,  '  I  must  hev 
a  plate  uv  them  beans! ' 

" 'Sakes  alive,  Mr.  Holbrook!'  says  she; 
'if  you  wuz  to  eat  any  o'  them  beans,  it  'd 
kill  ye!' 

"  'If I've  got  to  die,'  says  he,  'I  'm  goin'  to 
die  happy;  fetch  me  a  plate  uv  them  beans.' 

"  Waal,  Sary,  she  pikes  off  to  the  doctors. 

"  '  Look  a-here,'  says  she.  '  Mr.  Holbrook 
smelt  the  beans  cookin',  an'  he  says  he  's  got 
280 


OF  TALES 

to  have  a  plate  uv  'em.     Now,  what  shall  I 
do  about  it  ? ' 

"  'Waal,  doctor, 'says  Dock  Smith,  'what 
do  you  think  'bout  it? 

"  'He  's  got  to  die  anyhow,'  says  Dock 
Brainerd;  'an'  I  don't  suppose  the  beans  '11 
make  any  diff'rence.' 

"  'That  's  the  way  I  figger  it/  says  Dock 
Smith;  '  in  all  my  practice  I  never  knew  of 
beans  hurtin'  anybody.' 

"So  Sary  went  down  to  the  kitchen,  an' 
brought  up  a  plateful  of  hot  baked  beans. 
Dock  Smith  raised  Bill  up  in  bed,  an'  Dock 
Brainerd  put  a  piller  under  the  small  of  Bill's 
back.  Then  Sary  sat  down  by  the  bed,  an' 
fed  them  beans  into  Bill  until  Bill  could  n't 
hold  any  more. 

' ' '  How  air  you  feelin'  now  ? '  asked  Dock 
Smith. 

"Bill  did  n't  say  nuthin';  he  jest  smiled 
sort  uv  peaceful-like,  an'  closed  his  eyes. 

"  'The  end  hes  come,'  said  Dock  Brain 
erd  sof  ly.  '  Bill  is  dyin'.' 

"Then  Bill  murmured  kind  o'  far-away- 
like  (as  if  he  was  dreamin'),  'I  ain't  dyin'; 
I  'm  dead  an'  in  heaven/ 
281 


SECOND   BOOK  OF  TALES 

"Next  mornin'  Bill  got  out  uv  bed,  an' 
done  a  big  day's  work  on  the  farm,  an'  he 
hain't  bed  a  sick  spell  since.  Them  beans 
cured  him !  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  beans  is, "  etc. 


MLLE.  PRUD'HOMME'S   BOOK 


WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  Mai  3. 

M.  LE  REDACTEUR:  D'apres  votre  article  dans  la  "New- 
York  Tribune,"  copie  du  "  Chicago  News,"  je  me  figure 
que  les  habitants  de  Chicago  ayant  grand  besoin  d'un 
systeme  de  prononciation  francaise,  je  prends  la  liberte  de 
vous  envoyer  par  la  malle-poste  le  No.  2  d'un  ouvrage 
que  je  viens  de  publier;  si  vous  desirez  les  autres  nu- 
meros,  je  me  ferai  un  plaisir  de  vous  les  envoyer  aussi. 
Les  emballeurs  de  pore  ayant  pen  de  temps  a  consacrer 
a  1'etude,  vu  1'  omnipotent  dollar,  seront  je  crois  en- 
chantes  et  reconnaissants  d'un  systeme  par  lequel  ils 
pourront  apprendre  et  comprendre  la  langue  de  la  fine 
Sara,  au  bout  de  trente  lecons,  si  surtout  Monsieur  le 
redacteur  veut  bien  au  bout  de  sa  plume  spirituelle  leur 
en  indiquer  le  chemin.  Sur  ce  1'auteur  du  systeme  a 
bien  1'honneur  de  le  saluer. 

V.  PRUD'HOMME. 

This  is  a  copy  of  a  pleasant  letter  we  have 
received  from  a  distinguished  Washington 
lady;  we  do  not  print  the  accentuations,  be- 

283 


SECOND   BOOK 

cause  the  Chicago  patwor  admits  of  none. 
A  literal  rendering  of  the  letter  into  English 
is  as  follows:  ''From  after  your  article  in 
'  The  New  York  Tribune,'  copied  from  '  The 
Chicago  News,'  I  to  myself  have  figured  that 
the  inhabitants  of  Chicago  having  great  want 
of  a  system  of  pronunciation  French,  I  take 
the  liberty  to  you  to  send  by  the  mail-post 
the  number  two  of  a  work  which  I  come 
from  to  publish ;  if  you  desire  the  other  num 
bers,  I  to  myself  will  make  the  pleasure  of  to 
you  them  to  send  also.  The  packers  of 
porkers,  having  little  of  time  to  consecrate 
to  the  study  (owing  to  the  omnipotent  dol 
lar),  will  be,  I  believe,  enchanted  and  grate 
ful  of  a  system  by  the  which  they  may  learn 
and  understand  the  language  of  the  clever 
Sara,  at  the  end  of  thirty  lessons,  especially  if 
Mister  the  editor  will  at  the  end  of  his  pen 
witty  to  them  thereof  indicate  the  road. 
Whereupon  the  author  of  the  system  has 
much  the  honor  of  him  to  salute,"  etc. 

We  have  not  given  Mdlle.  Prud'homme's 

oovray  that  conscientious  study  and  that 

careful  research  which  we  shall  devote  to  it 

just  as  soon  as  the  tremendous  spring  rush 

284 


OF   TALES 


in  local  literature  eases  up  a  little.  The  re 
cent  opening  up  of  the  Straits  of  Mackinaw, 
and  the  prospect  of  a  new  railroad-line  into 
the  very  heart  of  the  dialectic  region  of  Indi 
ana,  have  given  Chicago  literature  so  vast 
an  impetus,  that  we  find  our  review-table 
groaning  under  the  weight  of  oovrays  that 
demand  our  scholarly  consideration.  Mdlle. 
Prud'homme  must  understand  (for  she  ap 
pears  to  be  exceedingly  amiable)  that  the  oov 
rays  of  local  litterateurs  have  to  be  reviewed 
before  the  oovrays  of  outside  litterateurs  can 
be  taken  up.  This  may  seem  hard,  but  it 
cannot  be  helped. 

Still,  we  will  say  that  we  appreciate,  and 
are  grateful  for,  the  uncommon  interest 
which  Mdlle.  Prud'homme  seems  to  take  in 
the  advancement  of  the  French  language  and 
French  literature  in  the  midst  of  us.  We 
have  heard  many  of  our  leading  savants  and 
scholiasts  frequently  express  poignant  regret 
that  they  were  unable  to  read  "  La  Fern  de 
Fu,"  "  Mamzel  Zheero  Mar  Fern,"  and  other 
noble  old  French  classics  whose  fame  has 
reached  this  modern  Athens.  With  the  ro 
mances  of  Alexandre  Dumas,  our  public  is 
285 


SECOND    BOOK 

thoroughly  acquainted,  having  seen  the  tal 
ented  James  O'Neill  in  Monty  Cristo,  and 
the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Grace  Haw 
thorne  ("Only  an  American  Girl")  in  Ca- 
meel;  yet  our  more  enterprising  citizens  are 
keenly  aware  that  there  are  other  French 
works  worthy  of  perusal  —  intensely  inter 
esting  works,  too,  if  the  steel  engravings 
therein  are  to  be  accepted  as  a  criterion. 

We  doubt  not  that  Mdlle.  Prud'homme  is 
desirous  of  doing  Chicago  a  distinct  good; 
and  why,  we  ask  in  all  seriousness,  should 
this  gifted  and  amiable  French  scholar  not 
entertain  for  Chicago  somewhat  more  than 
a  friendly  spirit,  merely  ?  The  first  settlers 
of  Chicago  were  Frenchmen;  and,  likely  as 
not,  some  of  Mdlle.  Prud'homme's  ancestors 
were  of  the  number  of  those  Spartan  voy- 
ageurs  who  first  sailed  down  Chicago 
River,  pitched  their  tents  on  the  spot  where 
Kirk's  soap-factory  now  stands,  and  cap 
tured  and  brought  into  the  refining  influ 
ences  of  civilization  Long  John  Wentworth, 
who  at  that  remote  period  was  frisking 
about  on  our  prairies,  a  crude,  callow  boy, 
only  ten  years  old,  and  only  seven  feet  tall. 
286 


OF  TALES 

Chicago  was  founded  by  Jeanne  Pierre 
Renaud,  one  of  the  original  two  orphans 
immortalized  by  Claxton  and  Halevy's  play 
in  thirteen  acts  of  the  same  name.  At  that 
distant  date  it  was  anything  but  promising; 
and  its  prominent  industries  were  Indians, 
musk-rats,  and  scenery.  The  only  crops  har 
vested  were  those  of  malaria,  twice  per  an 
num, —  in  October  and  in  April, —  but  the 
yield  was  sufficient  to  keep  the  community 
well  provided  all  the  year  round. 


THE  DEMAND  FOR  CONDENSED  MUSIC 


THERE  is  a  general  belief  that  the  mis 
take  made  by  the  managers  of  the  sym 
phony  concert  in  Central  Music  Hall  night 
before  last  was  in  not  opening  the  concert 
with  Beethoven's  "  Eroica,"  instead  of  mak 
ing  it  the  last  number  on  the  programme. 
We  incline  to  the  opinion,  however,  that,  in 
putting  the  symphony  last,  the  managers 
complied  with  the  very  first  requirement  of 
dramatic  composition.  This  requirement  is 
to  the  effect  that  you  must  not  kill  all  your 
people  off  in  the  first  act. 

There  doubtless  are  a  small  number  of 
worthy  people  who  enjoy  these  old  sym 
phonies  that  are  being  dragged  out  of  obliv 
ion  by  glass-eyed  Teutons  from  Boston.  It 
may  argue  a  very  low  grade  of  intellectual 
ity,  spirituality,  or  whatsoever  you  may  be 
288 


SECOND   BOOK   OF  TALES 

pleased  to  call  it;  but  we  must  confess  in  all 
candor,  that,  much  as  we  revere  Mr.  Bee 
thoven's  memory,  we  do  not  fancy  having 
fifty-five-minute  chunks  of  his  musty  opi 
hurled  at  us. 

It  is  a  marvel  to  us,  that,  in  these  progres 
sive  times,  such  leaders  as  Thomas  and  Ge- 
ricke  do  not  respond  to  the  popular  demand 
by  providing  the  public  with  symphonies  in 
the  nutshell.  We  have  condensations  in 
every  line  except  music.  Even  literature  is 
being  boiled  down;  because  in  these  busy 
times,  people  demand  a  literature  which  they 
can  read  while  they  run.  We  have  condensed 
milk,  condensed  meats,  condensed  wines, — 
condensed  everything  but  music.  What  a 
joyous  shout  would  go  up  if  Thomas  or 
Gericke  would  only  prepare  and  announce 

"SYMPHONIES  FOR  BUSY  PEOPLE! 

THE   OLD  MASTERS  EPITOMIZED!" 

What  Chicago  demands,  and  what  every 
enterprising  and  intelligent  community 
needs,  is  the  highest  class  of  music  on  the 

289 


SECOND   BOOK 

"  all-the-news-for-two-cents  "    principle. 
Blanket-sheet  concertizing  must  go! 

Now,  here  was  this  concert,  night  before 
last.  Two  hours  and  a  half  to  five  numbers! 
Suppose  we  figure  a  little  on  this  subject: 

EXHIBIT   A — SYMPHONY. 

Total  number  of  minutes  .  .  .  .150 
Total  number  of  pieces  ....  5 
Minutes  to  each  piece 30 

EXHIBIT   B  —  TRADE. 

Total  number  of  minutes  .  .  .  .150 
Hog- slaughtering  capacity  per  minute  3 
Total  killing 450 

Figures  will  not  lie,  because  (as  was  the 
reason  with  George)  they  cannot.  And 
figures  prove  to  us,  that,  in  the  time  con 
sumed  by  five  symphonic  numbers,  the 
startling  number  of  four  hundred  and  fifty 
hogs  could  be  (and  are  daily)  slaughtered, 
scraped,  disembowelled,  hewn,  and  packed. 
While  forty  or  fifty  able-bodied  musicians 
are  discoursing  Beethoven's  rambling  "  Ero- 
ica,"  it  were  possible  to  dispatch  and  to 
290 


OF   TALES 

dress  a  carload  of  as  fine  beeves  as  ever 
hailed  from  Texas;  and  the  performance  of 
the  "  Sakuntala  "  overture  might  be  regarded 
as  a  virtual  loss  of  as  much  time  as  would 
be  required  for  the  beheading,  skinning,  and 
dismembering  of  two  hundred  head  of  sheep. 
These  comparisons  have  probably  never 
occurred  to  Mr.  Thomas  or  to  Mr.  Gericke; 
but  they  are  urged  by  the  patrons  of  music 
in  Chicago,  and  therefore  they  must  needs 
be  recognized  by  the  caterers  to  popular 
tastes.  Chicago  society  has  been  founded 
upon  industry,  and  the  culture  which  she 
now  boasts  is  conserved  only  by  the  strictest 
attention  to  business.  Nothing  is  more 
criminal  hereabouts  than  a  waste  of  time; 
and  it  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  the  creme  de 
la  creme  of  our  elite  lift  up  their  hands,  and 
groan,  when  they  discover  that  it  takes  as 
long  to  play  a  classic  symphony  as  it  does 
to  slaughter  a  carload  of  Missouri  razor- 
backs,  or  an  invoice  of  prairie-racers  from 
Kansas. 


LEARNING  AND  LITERATURE 


MR.  J.  N.  WHITING  writes  us  from  New 
Litchfield,  111.,  asking  if  we  can  tell  him 
the  name  of  the  author  of  the  poem,  of  which 
the  following  is  the  first  stanza:  — 

The  weary  heart  is  a  pilgrim 

Seeking  the  Mecca  of  rest; 
Its  burden  is  one  of  sorrows; 
And  it  wails  a  song  as  it  drags  along, — 

'Tis  the  song  of  a  hopeless  quest. 

Mr.  Whiting  says  that  this  poem  has  been 
attributed  to  James  Channahon,  a  gentleman 
who  flourished  about  the  year  1 652 ;  ' '  but, " 
he  adds,  "  its  authorship  has  not  as  yet  been 
established  with  any  degree  of  certainty." 
Mr.  Whiting  has  noticed  that  the  "Daily 
News"  is  a  "  criterion  on  matters  of  literary 
interest,"  and  he  craves  the  boon  of  our 
valuable  opinion,  touching  this  important 
question. 

292 


SECOND   BOOK   OF  TALES 

Now,  although  it  is  true  that  we  occasion 
ally  deal  with  obsolete  topics,  it  is  far  from 
our  desire  to  make  a  practice  of  so  doing.  It 
is  natural  that,  once  in  a  while,  when  an 
editor  gets  hold  of  a  catalogue  of  unusual 
merit,  and  happens  to  have  a  line  of  encyclo 
paedias  at  hand  — it  is  natural,  we  say,  that, 
under  such  circumstances,  an  editor  should 
take  pleasure  in  letting  his  subscribers  know 
how  learnedly  he  can  write  about  books  and 
things.  But  an  editor  must  be  careful  not 
to  write  above  the  comprehension  of  the 
majority  of  his  readers.  If  we  made  a  prac 
tice  of  writing  as  learnedly  as  we  are  capable 
of  writing,  the  proprietors  of  this  paper 
would  soon  have  to  raise  its  price  from  two 
cents  to  five  cents  per  copy. 

We  say  this  in  no  spirit  of  egotism;  it 
is  simply  our  good  fortune  that  we  happen 
to  possess  extraordinary  advantages.  We 
have  the  best  assortment  of  cyclopaedias  in 
seven  states,  and  the  Public  Library  is  only 
two  blocks  off.  It  is  no  wonder,  therefore, 
that  our  erudition  and  our  research  are  of 
the  highest  order. 

Still  it  is  not  practicable  that  we,  being 
293 


SECOND   BOOK 


now  on  earth,  should  devote  much  time  to 
delving  into,  and  wallowing  among,  the 
authors  of  past  centuries.  Ignatius  Don 
nelly  has  been  trying  for  the  last  three  years 
to  inveigle  us  into  a  discussion  as  to  the 
authorship  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  We  have 
declined  to  participate  in  any  public  brawl 
with  the  Minnesota  gentleman,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  no  good  could  accrue  therefrom 
to  anybody.  If  there  were  an  international 
copyright  law,  there  would  be  some  use  in 
trying  to  find  out  who  wrote  these  plays,  in 
order  that  the  author  might  claim  royalties 
on  his  works;  or,  if  not  the  author,  his  heirs 
or  assigns  forever. 

Mr.  Whiting  will  understand  that  we  can 
not  take  much  interest  in  an  anonymous 
hymn  of  the  seventeenth  century.  It  is 
enough  for  us  to  know  that  the  hymn  in 
question  could  not  have  been  written  by  a 
Chicago  man,  for  the  very  good  reason  that 
Chicago  did  not  exist  in  the  seventeenth  cen 
tury  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  existed  merely  as  the 
haunt  of  the  musquash  and  the  mud-turtle, 
and  not  as  the  living,  breathing  metropolis 
of  to-day.  We  have  our  hands  full  examin- 

294 


OF  TALES 

ing  into,  and  criticising,  the  live  topics  of 
current  times :  if  we  were  to  spend  our  days 
and  nights  in  hunting  up  the  estray  poets 
and  authors  of  the  seventeenth  century,  how 
long  would  it  be  before  the  sceptre  of  trade 
and  culture  would  slip  irrecoverably  from 
Chicago's  grasp  ? 

Chicago  has  very  little  respect  for  the 
seventeenth  century,  because  there  is  noth 
ing  in  it.  The  seventeenth  century  has  done 
nothing  for  Chicago:  she  does  not  even 
know  that  this  is  the  greatest  hog-market 
in  the  world,  and  she  has  never  had  any 
commercial  dealings  with  us  in  any  line.  If 
Chicago  does  n't  cut  a  wider  swath  in  his 
tory  than  the  seventeenth  century  has,  we 
shall  be  very  much  ashamed  of  her. 


295 


DIE  WALKURE"  UNO  DER  BOOMER- 
ANGELUNGEN 


THERE  is  a  strange  fascination  about 
Herr  Wagner's  musical  drama  of  "  Die 
Walkure."  A  great  many  people  have  sup 
posed  that  Herr  Sullivan's  opera  of  "  Das 
Pinafore"  was  the  most  remarkable  musical 
work  extant,  but  we  believe  the  mistake  will 
become  apparent  as  Herr  Wagner's  master 
piece  grows  in  years. 

We  will  not  pretend  to  say  that  "Die 
Walkure"  will  ever  be  whistled  about  the 
streets,  as  the  airs  from  "Das  Pinafore"  are 
whistled;  the  fact  is,  that  no  rendition  of 
"  Die  Walkure"  can  be  satisfactory  without 
the  accompaniment  of  weird  flashes  of  fire; 
and  it  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  our  youth 
will  carry  packages  of  lycopodium,  and  boxes 
of  matches,  around  with  them,  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  giving  the  desired  effect  to  any 
296 


SECOND   BOOK  OF  TALES 

snatches  from  Herr  Wagner's  work  they  may 
take  the  notion  to  whistle.  But  in  the  sanc 
tity  of  our  homes,  around  our  firesides,  in 
the  front-parlor,  where  the  melodeon  or  the 
newly  hired  piano  has  been  set  up,  it  is  there 
that  Herr  Wagner's  name  will  be  revered, 
and  his  masterpiece  repeated  o'er  and  o'er. 

The  libretto  is  not  above  criticism;  it 
strikes  us  that  there  is  not  enough  of  it.  The 
probability  is  that  Herr  Wagner  ran  out  of 
libretto  before  he  had  got  through  with  his 
music,  and  therefore  had  to  spread  out  com 
paratively  few  words  over  a  vast  expanse  of 
music.  The  result  is  that  a  great  part  of 
the  time  the  performers  are  on  the  stage  is 
devoted  to  thought,  the  orchestra  doing  a 
tremendous  amount  of  fiddling,  etc.,  while 
the  actors  wander  drearily  around,  with  their 
arms  folded  across  their  pulmonary  depart 
ments,  and  their  minds  evidently  absorbed 
in  profound  cogitation. 

As  for  the  music,  the  only  criticism  we 
have  to  pass  upon  it  is  that  it  changes  its 
subject  too  often ;  in  this  particular  it  resem 
bles  the  dictionary, — in  fact,  we  believe 
"  Die  Walkure"  can  be  termed  the  Web- 
297 


SECOND   BOOR 

ster's  Unabridged  of  musical  language.  Herr 
Wagner  has  his  own  way  of  doing  business. 
He  goes  at  it  on  the  principle  of  the  twelfth 
man,  who  holds  out  against  the  eleven  other 
jurors,  and  finally  brings  them  around  to  his 
way  of  thinking. 

For  instance,  in  the  midst  of  a  pleasing 
strain  in  B  natural,  Herr  Wagner  has  a  habit 
of  suddenly  bringing  out  a  small  reed-instru 
ment  with  a  big  voice  (we  do  not  know  its 
name),  piped  in  the  key  of  F  sharp.  This 
small  reed-instrument  will  not  let  go ;  it  holds 
on  to  that  F  sharp  like  a  mortgage.  For  a 
brief  period  the  rest  of  the  instruments  — 
fiddles,  bassoons,  viols,  flutes,  flageolets, 
cymbals,  drums,  etc.  —  struggle  along  with 
an  attempt  to  either  drown  the  intruder,  or 
bring  it  around  to  their  way  of  doing  busi 
ness;  but  it  is  vain.  Every  last  one  of  them 
has  to  slide  around  from  B  natural  to  F  sharp, 
and  they  do  it  as  best  they  can. 

Having  accomplished  its  incendiary  and 
revolutionary  purpose,  the  small  reed-instru 
ment  subsides  until  it  finds  another  chance 
to  break  out.  It  is  a  mugwump. 

Die  Walkuren,  as  given  us  by  the  Dam- 


OF  TALES 

rosch  Company,  are  nine  stout,  comely  young 
women,  attired  in  costumes  somewhat  sim 
ilar  to  the  armor  worn  by  Herr  Lawrence 
Barrett's  Roman  army  in  Herr  Shakespeare's 
play  of  "Der  Julius  Caesar."  Readers  of 
Norse  mythology  may  suppose  that  these 
weird  sisters  were  dim,  vague,  shadowy 
creatures;  but  they  are  mistaken.  Brun- 
hilde  has  the  embonpoint  of  a  dowager,  and 
her  arms  are  as  robust  and  red  as  a  dairy 
maid's. 

As  for  Gerhilde,  Waltraute,  Helmwige, 
and  the  rest,  they  are  well-fed,  buxom  ladies, 
evidently  of  middle  age,  whose  very  ap 
pearance  exhales  an  aroma  of  kraut  and 
garlic,  which,  by  the  way,  we  see  by  the 
libretto,  was  termed  "  mead"  in  the  days  of 
Wotan  and  his  court.  These  Die  Walkuren 
are  said  to  ride  fiery,  untamed  steeds;  but 
only  one  steed  is  exhibited  in  the  drama  as 
it  is  given  at  the  Columbia.  This  steed,  we 
regret  to  say,  is  a  restless,  noisy  brute,  and 
invariably  has  to  be  led  off  the  stage  by  one 
of  das  supes,  before  his  act  concludes. 

However,  no  one  should  doubt  his  heroic 
nature,  inasmuch  as  the  cabalistic  letters 
299 


SECOND    BOOK 

"  U.  S."  are  distinctly  branded  upon  his  left 
flank. 

The  Sieglinde  of  the  piece  is  Fraulein 
Slach,  a  young  lady  no  bigger  than  a  min 
ute,  but  with  wonderful  powers  of  endur 
ance.  To  say  nothing  of  Hunding's  perse 
cutions,  she  has  to  shield  Siegmund,  elope 
with  him,  climb  beetling  precipices,  ride 
Brunhilde's  fiery,  untamed  steed,  confront 
die  Walkuren,  and  look  on  her  slain  lover, 
and,  in  addition  to  these  prodigies,  partici 
pate  in  a  Grseco-Roman  wrestling-match 
with  an  orchestra  of  sixty-five  pieces  for 
three  hours  and  a  half. 

Yet  she  is  equal  to  the  emergency.  Up 
to  the  very  last  she  is  as  fresh  as  a  daisy; 
and,  after  recovering  from  her  swooning- 
spell  in  the  second  act,  she  braces  her  shoul 
ders  back,  and  dances  all  around  the  top 
notes  of  the  chromatic  scale  with  the  great 
est  of  ease.  She  is  a  wonderful  little  wo 
man,  is  Fraulein  Slach!  What  a  wee  bit  of 
humanity,  yet  what  a  volume  of  voice  she 
has,  and  what  endurance! 

Down  among  the  orchestra  people  sat  a 
pale,  sad  man.  His  apparent  lonesomeness 
300 


OF   TALES 

interested  us  deeply.  We  could  not  imagine 
what  he  was  there  for.  Every  once  in  a 
while  he  would  get  up  and  leave  the  or 
chestra,  and  dive  down  under  the  stage,  and 
appear  behind  the  scenes,  where  we  could 
catch  glimpses  of  him  practising  with  a  pair 
of  thirty-pound  dumb-bells,  and  testing  a 
spirometer.  Then  he  would  come  back  and 
re-occupy  his  old  seat  among  the  orchestra, 
and  look  paler  and  sadder  than  ever.  What 
strange,  mysterious  being  was  he  ?  Why 
did  he  inflict  his  pale,  sad  presence  upon 
that  galaxy  of  tuneful  revellers  ? 

What  a  cunning  master  the  great  Herr 
Wagner  is!  For  what  emergency  does  he 
not  provide  ?  It  was  half-past  eleven  when 
the  third  act  began.  Die  Walkuren  had  as 
sembled  in  the  dismal  dell,  —  all  but  the  den 
Walkure,  Brunhilde.  Wotan  is  approach 
ing  on  appalling  storm-clouds,  composed  of 
painted  mosquito-bars  and  blue  lights.  The 
sheet-iron  thunder  crashes ;  and  the  orchestra 
is  engaged  in  another  mortal  combat  with 
that  revolutionary  mugwump,  the  small 
reed-instrument,  that  persists  in  reforming 
the  tune  of  the  opera. 
301 


SECOND    BOOK 


Then  the  pale,  sad  man  produces  a  large 
brass  horn,  big  enough  at  the  business  end 
for  a  cow  to  walk  into.  It  is  a  fearful,  pon 
derous  instrument,  manufactured  especially 
for  "  Die  Walkiire"  at  the  Krupp  Gun  Fac 
tory  in  Essen.  It  has  an  appropriate  name: 
the  master  himself  christened  it  the  boomer- 
angelungen.  It  is  the  monarch,  the  Jumbo 
of  all  musical  instruments.  The  cuspidor  end 
of  it  protrudes  into  one  of  the  proscenium- 
boxes.  The  fair  occupants  of  the  box  are 
frightened,  and  timidly  shrink  back. 

Wotan  is  at  hand.  He  comes  upon  seven 
hundred  yards  of  white  tarletan,  and  four 
teen  pounds  of  hissing,  blazing  lycopodium! 
The  pale,  sad  man  at  the  other  end  of  the 
boomerangelungen  explains  his  wherefore. 
He  applies  his  lips  to  the  brazen  monster. 
His  eyeballs  hang  out  upon  his  cheeks,  the 
veins  rise  on  his  neck,  and  the  lumpy  cords 
and  muscles  stand  out  on  his  arms  and 
hands.  Boohoop,  boohoop !  —  yes,  six  times 
boohoop  does  that  brazen  megatherium 
blare  out,  vivid  and  distinct,  above  all  the 
other  sixty  instruments  in  the  orchestra. 
Then  the  white  tarletan  clouds  vanish,  the 
302 


OF  TALES 

blazing  lycopodium  goes  out,  and  Wotan 
stands  before  the  excited  spectators. 

Then  the  pale,  sad  man  lays  down  the 
boomerangelungen,  and  goes  home.  That 
is  all  he  has  to  do;  the  six  sonorous  boo- 
hoops,  announcing  the  presence  of  Wotan, 
is  all  that  is  demanded  of  the  boomerange 
lungen.  But  it  is  enough :  it  is  marvellous, 
appalling,  prodigious. 

Whose  genius  but  Herr  Wagner's  could 
have  found  employment  for  the  boomer 
angelungen  ?  We  hear  talk  of  the  sword 
motive,  the  love  motive,  the  Walhalla  mo 
tive,  and  this  motive,  and  that;  but  they  all 
shrink  into  nothingness  when  compared 
with  the  motive  of  the  boomerangelungen. 


303 


THE  WORKS  OF  SAPPHO 


IT  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  Chicago 
society  is  more  deeply  interested  in  the 
circus  which  is  exhibiting  on  the  lake-front 
this  week,  than  in  the  compilation  of  Sap 
pho's  complete  works  just  published  in  Lon 
don,  and  but  this  week  given  to  the  trade  in 
Chicago.  As  we  understand  it,  Sappho  and 
the  circus  had  their  beginning  about  the 
same  time:  if  any  thing,  the  origin  of  the 
circus  antedated  Sappho's  birth  some  years, 
and  has  achieved  the  more  wide-spread  pop 
ularity. 

In  the  volume  now  before  us,  we  learn 
that  Sappho  lived  in  the  seventh  century  be 
fore  Christ,  and  that  she  was  at  the  zenith 
of  her  fame  at  the  time  when  Tarquinius 
Priscus  was  king  of  Rome,  and  Nebuchad 
nezzar  was  subsisting  on  a  hay-diet.  It  ap- 
504 


SECOND    BOOK   OF  TALES 

pears  that,  despite  her  wisdom,  this  talented 
lady  did  not  know  who  her  father  was; 
seventeen  hundred  years  after  her  demise, 
one  Suidas  claimed  to  have  discovered  that 
there  were  seven  of  her  father;  but  Herodo 
tus  gives  the  name  of  the  gentleman  most 
justly  suspected  as  Seaman dronymus.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  Sappho  married  a  rich  man, 
and  subsequently  fell  in  love  with  a  dude  who 
cared  nothing  for  her;  whereupon  the  unfor 
tunate  woman,  without  waiting  to  compile 
her  writings,  and  without  even  indicating 
whom  she  preferred  for  her  literary  executor, 
committed  suicide  by  hurling  herself  from  a 
high  precipice  into  the  sea.  Sappho  was  an 
exceedingly  handsome  person,  as  we  see  by 
the  engraving  which  serves  as  the  frontis 
piece  of  the  work  before  us.  This  engrav 
ing,  as  we  understand,  was  made  from  a 
portrait  painted  from  life  by  a  contempo 
raneous  old  Grecian  artist,  one  Alma  Tadema. 
Still,  we  could  not  help  wondering,  as  we 
saw  the  magnificent  pageant  of  Forepaugh's 
circus  sweep  down  our  majestic  boulevards 
and  superb  thoroughfares  yesterday ;  as  we 
witnessed  this  imposing  spectacle,  we  say, 
305 


SECOND   BOOK 

we  could  not  help  wondering  how  many 
people  in  all  the  vast  crowds  of  spectators 
knew  that  there  ever  was  such  a  poetess  as 
Sappho,  or  how  many,  knowing  that  there 
was  such  a  party,  have  ever  read  her  works. 
It  has  been  nearly  a  year  since  a  circus  came 
to  town;  and  in  that  time  public  taste  has 
been  elevated  to  a  degree  by  theatrical  and 
operatic  performers,  such  as  Sara  Bernhardt, 
Emma  Abbott,  Murray  and  Murphy,  Adele 
Patti,  George  C.  Miln,  Helena  Modjeska, 
Fanny  Davenport,  and  Denman  Thompson. 
Of  course,  therefore,  our  public  has  come 
to  be  able  to  appreciate  with  a  nicer  dis 
crimination  and  a  finer  zest  the  intellectual 
morceaux  and  the  refined  tidbits  which  Mr. 
Forepaugh's  unparalleled  aggregation  offers. 
This  was  apparent  in  the  vast  numbers  and 
in  the  unbridled  enthusiasm  of  our  best  citi 
zens  gathered  upon  the  housetops  and  at  the 
street-corners  along  the  line  of  the  circus 
procession.  So  magnificent  a  display  of 
silks,  satins,  and  diamonds  has  seldom  been 
seen:  it  truly  seemed  as  if  the  fashion  and 
wealth  of  our  city  were  trying  to  vie  with 
the  splendors  of  the  glittering  circus  pageant. 
306 


OF  TALES 

In  honor  of  the  event,  many  of  the  stores, 
public  buildings,  and  private  dwellings  dis 
played  banners,  mottoes,  and  congratulatory 
garlands.  From  the  balcony  of  the  palatial 
edifice  occupied  by  one  of  our  leading  liter 
ary  clubs  was  suspended  a  large  banner  of 
pink  silk,  upon  which  appeared  the  word 
' '  Welcome  "  in  white ;  while  beneath,  upon 
a  scroll,  was  an  appropriate  couplet  from 
one  of  Robert  Browning's  poems. 

When  we  asked  one  of  the  members  of 
this  club  why  the  club  made  such  a  fuss  over 
the  circus,  he  looked  very  much  astonished; 
and  he  answered,  "Well,  why  not?  Old 
Forepaugh  is  worth  over  a  million  dollars, 
and  he  always  sends  us  complimentaries 
whenever  he  comes  to  town!" 

We  asked  this  same  gentleman  if  he  had 
read  the  new  edition  of  Sappho's  poems. 
We  had  a  good  deal  of  confidence  in  his 
literary  judgment  and  taste,  because  he  is 
our  leading  linseed-oil  dealer;  and  no  man 
in  the  West  is  possessed  of  more  enterprise 
and  sand  than  he. 

"  My  daughter  brought  home  a  copy  of  the 
book    Saturday,"  said  he,    "and  I  looked 
307 


SECOND    BOOK 

through  it  yesterday.  Sappho  may  suit 
some  cranks;  but  as  for  me,  give  me  Ella 
Wheeler  or  Will  Carleton.  I  love  good  poe 
try:  1  've  got  the  finest-bound  copy  of 
Shakespeare  in  Illinois,  and  my  edition  of 
Coleridge  will  knock  the  socks  off  any  book 
in  the  country.  My  wife  has  painted  all  the 
Doray  illustrations  of  the  Ancient  Marine, 
and  1  would  n't  swap  that  book  for  the  cost 
liest  Mysonyay  in  all  Paris! 

"  I  can't  see  where  the  poetry  comes  in," 
he  went  on  to  say.  "  So  far  as  I  can  make 
out,  this  man  Sapolio  —  I  mean  Sappho — • 
never  did  any  sustained  or  consecutive  work. 
His  poems  read  to  me  a  good  deal  like  a 
diary.  Some  of  them  consist  of  one  line 
only,  and  quite  a  number  have  only  three 
words.  Now,  I  will  repeat  five  entire  poems 
taken  from  this  fool-book :  I  learned  them  on 
purpose  to  repeat  at  the  club.  Here  is  the 
first, - 

"  Me  just  now  the  golden-sandalled  Dawn. 

"That  's  all  there  is  to  it.  Here's  the 
second: 

"  I  yearn  and  seek. 
308 


OF   TALES 

"A  third  is  complete  in  - 

"  Much  whiter  than  an  egg; 

and  the  fourth  is, — 

"  Stir  not  the  shingle, 

which,  I  take  it,  was  one  of  Sapphire's  ju 
venile  poems  addressed  to  his  mother.  The 
fifth  poem  is  simply,— 

' '  And  thou  thyself,  Calliope, 

which,  by  the  way,  reminds  me  that  Fore- 
paugh's  calliope  got  smashed  up  in  a  rail 
road  accident  night  before  last,  — a  circum 
stance  deeply  to  be  regretted,  since  there  is 
no  instrument  calculated  to  appeal  more  di 
rectly  to  one  versed  in  mythological  lore,  or 
more  likely  to  awaken  a  train  of  pleasing 
associations,  than  the  steam-calliope." 

A  South-Side  packer,  who  has  the  largest 
library  in  the  city,  told  us  that  he  had  not 
seen  Sappho's  works  yet,  but  that  he  in 
tended  to  read  them  at  an  early  date.  "  I've 
got  so  sick  of  Howells  and  James,"  said  he, 
309 


SECOND   BOOK 

"that  I  'm  darned  glad  to  hear  that  some 
new  fellow  has  come  to  the  front." 

Another  prominent  social  light  (a  brewer) 
said  that  he  had  bought  a  "Sappho,"  and 
was  having  it  bound  in  morocco,  with  tur 
key-red  trimmings.  "I  do  enjoy  a  hand 
some  book,"  said  he.  "One  of  the  most 
valuable  volumes  in  my  library  I  bought  of 
a  leading  candy-manufacturer  in  this  city. 
It  is  the  original  libretto  and  score  of  the 
'Songs  of  Solomon/  bound  in  the  tanned 
pelt  of  the  fatted  calf  that  was  killed  when 
the  prodigal  son  came  home." 

"I  have  simply  glanced  through  the  Sap 
pho  book,"  said  another  distinguished  rep 
resentative  of  local  culture;  "and  what  sur 
prised  me,  was  the  pains  that  has  been  taken 
in  getting  up  the  affair.  Why,  do  you 
know,  the  editor  has  gone  to  the  trouble  of 
going  through  the  book,  and  translating 
every  darned  poem  into  Greek !  Of  course, 
this  strikes  us  business-men  of  Chicago  as  a 
queer  bit  of  pedantry.'' 

The  scholarly  and  courtly  editor  of  the 
"Weekly  Lard  Journal  and  Literary  Compan 
ion,"  Professor  A.  J.  Lyvely,  criticised  Sap- 
310 


OF  TALES 

pho  very  freely  as  he  stood  at  the  corner  of 
Clark  and  Madison  Streets,  waiting  for  the 
superb  gold  chariot  drawn  by  twenty  milk- 
white  steeds,  and  containing  fifty  musicians, 
to  come  along.  "Just  because  she  lived  in 
the  dark  ages,"  said  he,  "she  is  cracked  up 
for  a  great  poet;  but  she  will  never  be  as 
popular  with  the  masses  of  Western  readers 
as  Ella  Wheeler  and  Marion  Harland  are. 
All  of  her  works  that  remain  to  us  are  a  few 
fragments,  and  they  are  chestnuts;  for  they 
have  been  printed  within  the  last  ten  years 
in  the  books  of  a  great  many  poets  I  could 
name,  and  I  have  read  them.  We  know 
very  little  of  Sappho's  life.  If  she  had 
amounted  to  much,  we  would  not  be  in  such 
ignorance  of  her  doings.  The  probability 
is  that  she  was  a  society  or  fashion  editor 
on  one  of  the  daily  papers  of  her  time,— a 
sort  of  Clara-Belle  woman,  whose  naughti 
ness  was  mistaken  for  a  species  of  intellect 
ual  brilliancy.  Sappho  was  a  gamey  old 
girl,  you  know.  Her  life  must  have  been  a 
poem  of  passion,  if  there  is  any- truth  in  the 
testimony  of  the  authorities  who  wrote  about 
her  several  centuries  after  her  death.  In 
3" 


SECOND   BOOK 

fact,  these  verses  of  hers  that  are  left  indi 
cate  that  she  was  addicted  to  late  suppers, 
to  loose  morning-gowns,  to  perfumed  sta 
tionery,  and  to  hysterics.  It  is  ten  to  one 
that  she  wore  flaming  bonnets  and  striking 
dresses;  that  she  talked  loud  at  the  theatres 
and  in  public  generally;  and  that  she  chewed 
gum,  and  smoked  cigarettes,  when  she  went 
to  the  races.  If  that  woman  had  lived  in 
Chicago,  she  would  have  been  tabooed." 

The  amiable  gentleman  who  reads  man 
uscripts  for  Rand,  McNally  &  Co.  says  that 
Sappho's  manuscripts  were  submitted  to  him 
a  year  ago.  "  I  looked  them  over,  and  sat 
isfied  myself  that  there  was  nothing  in  them ; 
and  I  told  the  author  so.  He  seemed  in 
clined  to  dispute  me,  but  I  told  him  I  reck 
oned  I  understood  pretty  well  what  would 
sell  in  our  literary  circles  and  on  our  rail 
road-trains." 

But  while  there  was  a  pretty  general  dis 
position  to  criticise  Sappho,  there  was  only 
one  opinion  as  to  the  circus-parade;  and 
that  was  complimentary.  For  the  nonce, 
we  may  say,  the  cares  and  vexations  of 
business,  of  literature,  of  art,  and  of  science, 
312 


OF   TALES 


were  put  aside ;  and  our  populace  abandoned 
itself  to  a  hearty  enjoyment  of  the  brilliant 
pageant  which  appealed  to  the  higher  in 
stincts.     And,  as  the   cage   containing  the 
lions  rolled  by,  the  shouts  of  the  enthusias 
tic   spectators   swelled   above   the  guttural 
roars  of  the  infuriate  monarchs  of  the  desert. 
Men  waved  their  hats,  and  ladies  fluttered 
their  handkerchiefs.     Altogether,  the  scene 
was  so  exciting  as  to  be  equalled  only  by  the 
rapturous    ovation    which    was    tendered 
Mdlle.  Hortense  de  Vere,  queen  of  the  air, 
when  that  sylph-like  lady  came  out  into  the 
arena  of  Forepaugh's  great  circus-tent  last 
evening,  and  poised  herself  upon  one  tiny 
toe  on  the  back  of  an  untamed  and  foaming 
Arabian  barb  that  dashed  round  and  round 
the  sawdust  ring.     Talk  about  your  Sapphos 
and  your  poetry!     Would  Chicago  hesitate 
a  moment  in  choosing  between  Sappho  and 
Mdlle.  Hortense  de  Vere,  queen  of  the  air? 
And  what  rhythm  — be  it  Sapphic,  or  cho- 
riambic,  or  Ionic  a  minore  —  is  to  be  com 
pared  with  the  symphonic  poetry  of  a  shapely 
female  balanced   upon  one  delicate  toe  on 
the  bristling  back  of  a  fiery,  untamed  pal- 
3«3 


SECOND   BOOK   OF  TALES 

frey  that  whoops  round  and  round  to  the 
music  of  the  band,  the  plaudits  of  the  pub 
lic,  and  the  still,  small  voice  of  the  dyspeptic 
gent  announcing  a  minstrel  show  "under 
this  canvas  after  the  performance,  which  is 
not  yet  half  completed  ?  " 

If  it  makes  us  proud  to  go  into  our  book 
stores,  and  see  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  tomes  waiting  for  customers;  if  our  bos 
oms  swell  with  delight  to  see  the  quiet  and 
palatial  homes  of  our  cultured  society  over 
flowing  with  the  most  expensive  wall-papers 
and  the  costliest  articles  of  virtue ;  if  we  take 
an  ineffable  enjoyment  in  trje  thousand  in 
dications  of  a  growing  refinement  in  the 
midst  of  us, — vaster  still  must  be  the  pride, 
the  rapture,  we  feel  when  we  behold  our  in 
tellect  and  our  culture  paying  the  tribute  of 
adoration  to  the  circus.  Viewing  these  en 
livening  scenes,  why  may  we  not  cry  in  the 
words  of  Sappho,  "Wealth  without  thee, 
Worth,  is  a  shameless  creature;  but  the  mix 
ture  of  both  is  the  height  of  happiness  "  ? 


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